THE 
HAPPY  END 


BY 
JOSEPH  HERGESHEIMER 


NEW  YORK 

ALFRED 'A' KNOPF 

1919 


COPYRIGHT,  1919,  BY 
ALFRED  A.  KNOPF,  INC. 

Published  August,  1919 
Second  Printing  September,  1919 


Copyright,  1914,  1917,  1918,  by  The  Cnrth  Publishing  Company 

PRINTED   IK    THE    UNITED    8TATBS   OF   AMERICA 


DEDICATION 

These  stories  have  but  one  purpose  —  to 
give  pleasure;  and  they  have  been  made  into 
a  book  at  the  requests  of  those  I  have  for 
tunately  pleased.  It  is}  therefore,  to  such 
friends  of  my  writing  that  they  are  ad 
dressed  and  dedicated.  However,  this  is 
not  an  effort  to  avoid  my  responsibility:  but 
to  whom?  Not  to  critics,  not  middlemen, 
nor  the  Academies  of  which  I  am  so  repre- 
hensibly  ignorant;  not,  certainly,  to  my 
neighbor.  They  brought  me,  in  times  of 
varying  difficulty,  food;  and  for  that  excel 
lent  reason  I  am  forced  to  conclude  that, 
then  as  now,  I  am  responsible  to  my  grocer. 


u  O 


CONTENTS 

Lonely   Valleys 11 

The  Egyptian  Chariot       ...  55 

The  Flower  of  Spain         ...  93 

Tol'able   David 155 

Bread 193 

Rosemary   Roselle        ....  231 

The   Thrush  in  the  Hedge       .       .  283 


LONELY  VALLEYS 


THE  maid,  smartly  capped  in  starched  ruffled 
muslin  and  black,  who  admitted  them  to  the 
somber  luxury  of  the  rectory,  hesitated  in  un 
concealed  sulky  disfavor. 

"  Doctor  Goodlowe  has  hardly  started  dinner,"  she 
asserted. 

"  Just  ask  him  to  come  out  for  a  little,"  the  man  re 
peated. 

He  was  past  middle  age,  awkward  in  harsh  ill-fitting 
and  formal  clothes  and  with  a  gaunt  high-boned  counte 
nance  and  clear  blue  eyes. 

His  companion,  a  wistfully  pale  girl  under  an  absurd 
and  expensive  hat,  laid  her  hand  in  an  embroidered  white 
silk  glove  on  his  arm  and  said  in  a  low  tone:  "  We  won't 
bother  him,  Calvin.  There  are  plenty  of  ministers  in 
Washington;  or  we  could  come  back  later." 

"  There  are,  and  we  could,"  he  agreed;  "  but  we  won't. 
I'm  not  going  to  wait  a  minute  more  for  you,  Lucy.  Not 
now  that  you  are  willing.  Why,  I  have  been  waiting  half 
my  life  already." 


A  gaunt  young  man  with  clear  blue  eyes  sat  on  the 
bank  of  a  mountain  road  and  gazed  at  the  newly-built 
house  opposite.  It  was  the  only  dwelling  visible.  Be 
hind,  the  range  rose  in  a  dark  wall  against  the  evening 


TTHE   HAPPY    END 

sky;  on  either  hand  the  small  green  valley  was  lost  in  a 
blue  haze  of  serried  peaks.  The  house  was  not  imposing ; 
in  reality  small,  but  a  story  and  a  half,  it  had  a  length  of 
three  rooms  with  a  kitchen  forming  an  angle,  invisible 
from  where  Calvin  Stammark  sat;  an  outside  chimney  at 
each  end,  and  a  narrow  covered  portico  over  the  front 
door. 

An  expiring  clatter  of  hoofs  marked  the  departure  of 
the  neighbor  who  had  helped  Calvin  set  the  last  flanged 
course.  It  seemed  incredible  that  it  was  finished,  ready 
—  when  the  furniture  and  bright  rag  carpet  had  been 
placed  —  for  Hannah.  "  The  truck  patch  will  go  in  there 
on  the  right,"  he  told  himself;  "  and  gradually  I'll  get  the 
slope  cleared  out,  corn  and  buckwheat  planted." 

He  twisted  about,  facing  the  valley.  It  was  deep  in 
grass,  watered  with  streams  like  twisting  shining  ribbons, 
and  held  a  sleek  slow-grazing  herd  of  cattle. 

The  care  of  the  latter,  a  part  of  Senator  Alderwith's 
wide  possessions,  was  to  form  Calvin's  main  occupation  — 
for  the  present  anyhow.  Calvin  Stammark  had  larger 
plans  for  his  future  with  Hannah.  Some  day  he  would 
own  the  Alderwith  pastures  at  his  back  and  be  graz 
ing  his  own  steers. 

His  thoughts  returned  to  Hannah,  and  he  rose  and 
proceeded  to  where  a  saddled  horse  was  tied  beside  the 
road.  He  ought  to  go  back  to  Greenstream  and  fix  up 
before  seeing  her;  but  with  their  home  all  built,  his 
impatience  to  be  with  her  was  greater  than  his  sense  of 
propriety,  and  he  put  his  horse  at  a  sharp  canter  to  the 
left. 

Calvin  continued  down  the  valley  until  the  road  turned 
[12] 


LONELY    VALLEYS 

toward  the  range  and  an  opening  which  he  followed  into 
a  steeper  and  narrower  rift  beyond.  Here  there  were  no 
clearings  in  the  rocky  underbrush  until  he  reached  Rich 
mond  Braley's  land.  A  long  upturning  sweep  ended  at 
the  house,  directly  against  the  base  of  the  mountain;  and 
without  decreasing  his  gait  he  passed  over  the  faintly 
traced  way,  by  the  triangular  sheep  washing  and  shearing 
pen,  to  the  stabling  shed. 

Hannah's  mother  was  bending  fretfully  over  the  kitchen 
stove,  and  Richmond,  her  father,  was  drawing  off  sodden 
leather  boots.  He  was  a  man  tall  and  bowed,  stiff  but 
still  powerful,  with  a  face  masked  in  an  unkempt  tangle 
of  beard. 

"  H'y,  Calvin,"  he  cried;  "you're  just  here  for  spoon 
licking!  Lucy  was  looking  for  company."  Mrs.  Bra- 
ley's  comment  was  below  her  breath,  but  it  was  plainly  no 
corroboration  of  her  husband's  assurance.  "  You'll 
find  Hannah  in  the  front  of  the  house,"  Richmond 
added. 

Hannah  was  sitting  on  the  stone  steps  at  the  side  en 
trance  to  the  parlor.  As  usual  she  had  a  bright  bow  in  the 
hair  streaming  over  her  back,  and  her  feet  were  graceful 
in  slippers  with  thin  black  stockings.  She  kissed  him 
willingly  and  studied  him  with  wide-opened  hazel-brown 
eyes.  There  wasn't  another  girl  in  Greenstream,  in  Vir 
ginia,  with  Hannah's  fetching  appearance,  he  decided 
with  a  glow  of  adoration.  She  had  a  —  a  sort  of  beauty 
entirely  her  own;  it  was  not  exactly  prettiness,  but  a 
quality  far  more  disturbing,  something  a  man  could  never 
forget. 

"  She's  done,"  he  told  her  abruptly. 
[13] 


THE   HAPPY    END 

"  What?  "  Hannah  gazed  up  at  him  with  a  dim  sweet 
ness  in  the  gathering  dusk. 

"  What!  "  he  mocked  her.  "  You  ought  to  be  ashamed 
to  ask.  Why,  the  house  —  our  home.  We  could  move  in 
by  a  week  if  we  were  called  to.  We  can  get  married  any 
time." 

She  now  looked  away  from  him,  her  face  still  and 
dreaming. 

"  You  don't  seem  overly  anxious,"  Calvin  declared. 

"  It's  just  the  idea,"  she  replied.  "  I  never  thought  of 
it  like  this  before  —  right  on  a  person."  She  sighed. 
"  Of  course  it  will  be  nice,  Calvin." 

He  sat  below  her  with  an  arm  across  her  slim  knees. 
"  I'm  going  to  dig  right  into  the  truck  patch;  there's  a 
parcel  of  poles  cut  for  the  beans.  It  won't  be  much  the 
first  year;  but  wait  and  we'll  show  people  how  to  live." 
He  repeated  his  vision  in  connection  with  the  present 
Alderwith  holdings. 

"  I  wonder  will  we  ever  be  rich  like  the  senator?  " 

"  Certainly,"  he  answered  with  calm  conviction.  "  A 
man  couldn't  be  shiftless  with  you  to  do  for,  Hannah. 
He'd  be  obliged  to  have  everything  the  best." 

"  It'll  take  a  long  while  though,"  she  continued. 

"  We  will  have  to  put  in  some  hard  licks,"  he  admitted. 
"  But  we  are  young;  we've  got  a  life  to  do  it  in." 

"  A  man  has,  but  I  don't  know  about  girls.  It  seems 
like  they  get  old  faster ;  and  then  things  —  silk  dresses 
don't  do  them  any  good.  How  would  ma  look  in  fashion 
able  clothes!" 

"  You  won't  have  to  wait  that  long,"  he  assured  her. 
"  Your  father  has  never  hurt  himself  about  the  place, 

[14] 


LONELY    VALLEYS 

there's  no  money  in  sheep;  and  as  for  Hosmer  —  you 
know  well  as  me  that  he  is  nothing  outside  of  the  bank 
and  his  own  comfort.  Store  clothes  is  Hosmer  all 
through." 

"  I  wish  you  were  a  little  like  him  there,"  Hannah  re 
turned. 

He  admitted  that  this  evening  he  was  more  untidy  than 
need  be.  "  I  just  couldn't  wait  to  see  you,"  he  declared; 
"  with  our  place  and  —  and  all  so  safe  and  happy." 


II 

The  Braley  table,  spread  after  the  Greenstream  custom 
in  the  kitchen,  was  surrounded  by  Richmond  and  Calvin 
—  Hosmer -had  stayed  late  at  the  bank  —  Hannah  and 
Susan,  the  eldest  of  the  children,  prematurely  aged  and 
wasted  by  a  perpetual  cough,  while  Lucy  Braley  moved 
carelessly  between  the  stove  and  the  table.  At  rare  inter 
vals  she  was  assisted  by  Hannah,  who  bore  the  heavy 
dishes  in  a  silent  but  perceptible  air  of  protest. 

Calvin  Stammark  liked  this;  it  was  a  part  of  her  su 
periority  to  the  other  girls  of  the  locality.  He  made  up  his 
mind  that  she  should  never  lose  her  present  gentility. 
Whenever  he  could  afford  it  Hannah  must  have  help  in  the 
house.  No  greater  elegance  was  imaginable.  Senator 
Alderwith,  at  his  dwelling  with  its  broad  porch,  had  two 
servants  —  two  servants  and  a  bathtub  with  hot  water 
running  right  out  of  a  tap.  And  he  Calvin  Stammark, 
would  have  the  same,  before  Hannah  and  he  were  too  old 
to  enjoy  it. 

He  had  eleven  hundred  dollars  now,  after  buying  the 
[15] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

land  about  his  house.  When  the  right  time  came  he 
would  invest  it  in  more  property  —  grazing,  a  few  herd 
of  cattle  and  maybe  in  timber.  Calvin  had  innumerable 
schemes  for  their  betterment  and  success.  To  all  this  the 
sheer  fact  of  Hannah  was  like  the  haunting  refrain  of  a 
song.  She  was  never  really  out  of  his  planning.  He 
might  be  sitting  on  his  rooftree  squaring  the  shingling; 
bargaining  with  Eli  Goss,  the  stone-cutter;  renewing  the 
rock  salt  for  Alderwith's  steers;  but  running  through  every 
occupation  was  the  memory  of  Hannah's  pale  distracting 
face,  the  scarlet  thread  of  the  lips  she  was  continually 
biting,  her  slender  solid  body. 

He  had  heard  that  her  mother  was  like  that  when  she 
was  young;  but  looking  at  Mrs.  Braley's  spent  being,  hear 
ing  her  thin  complaining  voice,  it  seemed  impossible.  Peo 
ple  who  had  known  her  in  her  youth  asserted  that  it  was  so. 
Phebe  too,  they  said,  was  the  same  —  Phebe  who  had  left 
Greenstream  nine  years  ago,  when  she  was  seventeen,  to 
become  an  actress  in  the  great  cities  beyond  the  mountains. 
This  might  or  might  not  be  a  fact.  Calvin  always 
doubted  that  any  one  else  could  have  Hannah's  charm. 

However,  he  had  never  seen  Phebe;  he  had  moved  from 
a  distant  part  of  the  county  to  the  principal  Greenstream 
settlement  after  she  had  gone.  But  the  legend  of  Phebe's 
beauty  and  talent  was  a  part  of  the  Braley  household. 
Mrs.  Braley  told  it  as  a  distinguished  trait  that  Phebe 
would  never  set  her  hand  in  hot  dishwater.  Calvin  noted 
that  Hannah  was  often  blamed  for  domestic  negligence, 
but  this  and  far  more  advanced  conduct  in  Phebe  was 
surrounded  by  a  halo  of  superiority. 

After  supper,  in  view  of  the  fact  of  their  courtship, 
[16] 


LONELY   VALLEYS 

Calvin  and  Hannah  were  permitted  to  sit  undisturbed  in 
the  formality  of  the  parlor.  The  rest  of  the  family  con 
gregated  with  complete  normality  in  the  kitchen.  The 
parlor  was  an  uncomfortable  chamber  with  uncomfortable 
elaborate  chairs  in  orange  plush  upholstery,  a  narrow  sofa, 
an  organ  of  highly  varnished  lightwood  ornamented  with 
scrolled  fretwork,  and  a  cannon  stove  with  polished  brass 
spires. 

Calvin  sat  on  the  sofa  with  an  arm  about  Hannah's 
waist,  while  she  twisted  round  her  finger  the  ring  he  had 
given  her,  a  ring  of  warranted  gold  clasping  a  large  red 
stone.  Her  throat  was  circled  by  a  silver  chain  supporting 
a  mounted  polished  Scotch  pebble,  his  gift  as  well.  Their 
position  was  conventional;  Calvin's  arm  was  cramped 
from  its  unusual  position,  he  had  to  brace  his  feet  to  keep 
firm  on  the  slippery  plush,  but  he  was  dazed  with  delight. 
His  heart  throbs  were  evident  in  his  wrists  and  throat, 
while  a  tenderness  of  pity  actually  wet  his  eyes. 

At  times  he  spoke  in  a  hushed  voice,  phrases  meaning 
less  in  word  but  charged  with  inarticulate  emotion;  Han 
nah  replied  more  coherently;  but  for  the  most  they  were 
silent.  She  accepted  the  situation  with  evident  calm  as  an 
inevitable  part  of  life.  Drawn  against  him  she  rested 
her  head  lightly  on  his  shoulder,  her  gaze  speculative  and 
undisturbed. 

Once  he  exclaimed:  "  I  don't  believe  you  love  me!  I 
don't  believe  you're  interested  in  the  things  for  the  kitchen 
or  the  bedroom  suite  I  saw  in  a  catalogue  at  Priest's 
store!  " 

"  Don't  be  silly!  "  she  murmured.  "  Why  shouldn't  I 
be  when  it's  my  own,  when  it's  all  I'm  going  to  have." 

[17] 


THE   HAPPY    END 

He  cried  bravely.  "  It's  only  the  beginning !  Wait 
till  you  see  our  cattle  herded  over  the  mountain  to  the  rail 
road;  wait  till  you  see  a  spur  come  up  the  Sugarloaf  and 
haul  away  our  hardwood.  Just  you  wait " 

There  was  the  clip-clip  of  a  horse  outside,  and  the 
creaking  of  wheels. 

"I  believe  that's  Hosmer."  Hannah  rose.  "It's 
funny,  too,  because  he  said  he'd  have  to  stay  at  the  hotel 
to-night,  there  was  so  much  settling  up  at  the  bank." 

It  was,  however,  Hosmer  Braley.  He  paused  at  the 
parlor  door,  a  man  in  the  vicinity  of  thirty,  fat  in  body 
and  carefully  clad,  with  a  white  starched  collar  and  fig 
ured  satin  tie. 

"  I  didn't  want  to  drive  out,"  he  said,  at  once  bland  and 
aggrieved;  "  but  it  couldn't  be  helped.  Here's  a  piece  of 
news  for  all  of  you  —  Phebe  is  coming  home  to  visit. 
She  wrote  me  to  say  so,  and  I  only  got  the  letter  this 
evening.  Whatever  do  you  suppose  took  her?  " 

Hannah  at  once  flushed  with  excitement  —  like,  Calvin 
Stammark  thought,  the  parlor  lamp  with  the  pink  shade, 
turned  up  suddenly.  An  instant  vague  depression  settled 
over  him;  Hannah,  only  the  minute  before  in  his  arms, 
seemed  to  draw  away  from  him,  remote  and  unconcerned 
by  anything  but  Phebe's  extraordinary  return.  Hosmer 
made  it  clear  that  the  event  promised  nothing  but  annoy 
ance  for  him. 

"  She's  coming  by  to-morrow's  stage,"  he  went  on,  un 
touched  by  the  sensation  his  information  had  wrought  in 
the  kitchen;  "and  it's  certain  I  can't  meet  her.  The 
bank's  sending  me  into  West  Virginia  about  some  securi 
ties." 

[18] 


LONELY    VALLEYS 

Richmond  Braley,  it  developed  further,  was  bound  to  a 
day's  work  on  the  public  roads.  They  turned  to  Calvin. 

"Take  my  buggy,"  Hosmer  offered;  "111  have  to  go 
from  Durban  by  rail." 

There  was  no  reason  why  he  shouldn't  meet  Phebe 
Braley,  Calvin  realized.  He  lingered,  gazing  with  silent 
longing  at  Hannah,  but  it  was  evident  that  she  had  no 
intention  of  returning  to  the  parlor. 

Ill 

Waiting  in  Hosmer's  buggy  for  the  arrival  of  the  Green- 
stream  stage  and  Phebe  Braley,  Calvin  was  conscious  of 
the  persistence  of  the  depression  that  had  invaded  him  at 
the  announcement  of  her  visit.  He  resented,  too,  the  new 
element  thrust  into  the  Braley  household,  disrupting  the 
familiar  course  of  his  love.  Hannah  had  been  unreason 
ably  distracted  by  the  actuality  of  Phebe's  return  — 
the  Phebe  who  had  gone  away  from  the  mountains  and 
become  an  actress. 

The  buggy  was  drawn  to  one  side  of  the  principal 
Greenstream  road,  at  the  post-office.  Before  him  the  way 
crossed  the  valley  and  lifted  abruptly  to  the  slope  of  the 
eastern  range.  At  his  back  the  village  —  the  brick  Meth 
odist  church  and  the  white  painted  Presbyterian  church, 
the  courthouse  with  its  dignified  columns,  the  stores  at 
the  corners  of  the  single  crossroads,  and  varied  dwell 
ings—was  settling  into  the  elusive  May  twilight.  The 
highest  peaks  in  the  east  were  capped  with  dissolving 
rose  by  the  lowering  sun,  and  the  sky  was  a  dusty  blue. 

Calvin  Stammark  heard  the  approaching  stage  before  he 
[19] 


THE   HAPPY    END 

saw  it;  then  the  long  rigid  surrey  with  its  spare  horses 
rapidly  rolled  up  over  the  open  road  to  the  post-office. 
He  got  down  and  moved  diffidently  forward,  seeing  and 
recognizing  Phebe  immediately.  This  was  made  possible 
by  her  resemblance  to  Hannah;  and  yet,  Calvin  added, 
no  two  women  could  be  more  utterly  different. 

Phebe  Braley  had  a  full  figure  —  she  was  almost 
stout  —  a  body  of  the  frankest  emphasized  curves  in  a 
long  purple  coat  with  a  collar  of  soiled  white  fur.  A 
straw  hat  with  the  brim  caught  by  a  short  purple-dyed 
ostrich  feather  was  pinned  to  a  dead-looking  crinkled  mass 
of  greenish-gold  hair,  and  her  face  —  the  memorable  fea 
tures  of  Hannah  —  was  loaded  with  pink  powder. 

Calvin  said:  "  You  must  be  Phebe  Braley.  Well,  I'm 
Calvin  Stammark.  Your  father  or  Hosmer  couldn't  meet 
the  stage  and  so  they  had  to  let  me  get  you.  Where's 
your  bag?  " 

She  adopted  at  once  an  air  of  comfortable  familiarity. 
"  I  don't  remember  your  name,"  she  said,  settling  beside 
him  in  the  buggy. 

He  told  her  that  he  had  come  to  this  vicinity  after  she 
had  gone  and  that  he  was  about  to  marry  her  sister. 

"  The  hell  you  say !  "  she  replied  with  cheerful  surprise. 
"  Who'd  thought  Hannah  was  old  enough  to  have  a  fel 
low!  " 

They  were  out  of  the  village  now  and  she  produced  a 
paper  pack  of  cigarettes  from  a  leather  hand  bag  with  a 
florid  gilt  top.  Flooding  her  being  with  smoke  she  gazed 
with  a  shudder  at  the  mountain  wall  on  either  hand,  the 
unbroken  greenery  sweeping  to  the  sky. 

"  It's  worse  than  I  remembered,"  she  confided,  resting 
[20] 


LONELY    VALLEYS 

against  him.  "  A  person  with  any  life  to  them  would  go 
dippy  here.  Say,  it's  fierce!  And  yet,  inside  of  me,  I'm 
kind  of  glad  to  see  it.  I  used  to  dream  about  the  moun 
tains,  and  this  is  like  riding  in  the  dream.  I'm  glad  you 
came  for  me  and  let  me  down  easy  into  things.  I  suppose 
they  live  in  the  kitchen  home  and  pa'd  lose  a  currycomb 
in  his  beard.  Does  Hosmer  still  beller  if  he  gets  the 
chicken  neck? 

"  Do  you  sit  in  the  holy  parlor  for  your  courting,  and 
ain't  that  plush  sofa  a  God-forsaken  perch  for  two  little 
love  birds?  It's  funny  how  I  remember  this  and  that. 
I  reckon  ma's  temper  don't  improve  with  age.  They  kid 
me  something  dreadful  about  saying  *  reckon,'  in  the 
talent.  But  it's  all  good  and  a  dam'  sight  better  than  '  I 
guess.'  That's  all  they  get  off  me." 

Calvin  Stammark's  vague  uneasiness  changed  to  an 
acute  dislike,  even  a  fear  of  Phebe.  Her  freedom  of  dis 
course  and  person,  the  powdered  hard  face  close  to  his, 
the  reek  of  scent  —  all  rasped  the  delicacy  of  his  love  for 
Hannah.  The  sisters  were  utterly  different,  and  yet  he 
would  have  realized  instantly  their  relationship.  Phebe, 
too,  had  the  disturbing  quality  that  made  Hannah  so  ap 
pealing.  In  the  former  it  was  coarsened,  almost  lost;  al 
most  but  not  quite. 

"  I'll  bet,"  she  continued,  "  that  I'm  the  only  female 
prodigal  on  the  bills.  Not  that  I've  been  feeding  on 
husks.  Not  me.  Milwaukee  lager  and  raw  beef  sand 
wiches.  I  have  a  passion  for  them  after  the  show.  We 
do  two  a  day  and  I  want  solid  refreshment.  I  wonder 
if  you  ever  saw  me.  Of  course  you  didn't,  but  you  might 
have.  Ned  Higmann's  Parisian  Dainties.  Rose  Ray- 

[21] 


THE   HAPPY    END 

ner's  what  I  go  by.  That's  French,  but  spelled  different, 
and  means  brightness.  And  I'm  bright,  Casper. 

"  My,  what  are  you  so  glum  about  —  the  dump  you 
live  in  or  matrimony?  There  was  a  gentleman  in  an  or 
chestra  in  Harrisburg  wanted  to  marry  me  —  he  played 
the  oboe  —  but  I  declined.  Too  Bohemian.  .  .  .  This 
is  where  we  turn,"  she  cried  instinctively,  and  they 
swung  into  the  valley  where  the  Braleys  had  their  clearing. 

Phebe  crushed  the  cigarette  in  her  fingers.  Suddenly 
she  was  nervous. 

"  It's  natural  I  have  changed  a  lot,"  she  said.  "  If  you 
hear  me  saying  anything  rough  pinch  me." 

Richmond  Braley  was  standing  beside  his  house  in  the 
muddy  clothes  in  which  he  had  labored  on  the  roads,  and 
Mrs.  Braley  and  Hannah  came  eagerly  forward.  Behind 
them  sounded  Susan's  racking  cough.  Sentimental  tears 
rolled  dustily  over  Phebe's  cheeks  as  she  kissed  and 
embraced  her  mother  and  sisters. 

"  H'y,"  Richmond  Braley  awkwardly  saluted  her;  and 
"  H'y,"  she  answered  in  the  local  manner. 

"  Well,"  he  commented,  "  you  hain't  forgotten  that  any 
way." 

Calvin  was  asked  to  stay  for  the  supper  that  had  been 
delayed  for  Phebe's  return,  but  when  he  declined  uncer 
tainly  he  wasn't  pressed.  Putting  up  Hosmer's  rig  and 
saddling  his  own  horse  he  rode  slowly  and  dejectedly  on. 

Instead  of  going  directly  back  to  Greenstream  he  fol 
lowed  the  way  that  led  to  his  new  house.  The  evening 
was  silvery  with  a  full  brilliant  moon,  and  the  fresh  paint 
and  bright  woodwork  were  striking  against  the  dark  ele 
vated  background  of  trees.  The  truck  patch  would  be 

[22] 


LONELY    VALLEYS 

dug  on  the  right,  the  clearing  widen  rod  by  rod.  From 
Alderwith's  meadows  came  the  soft  blowing  of  a  steer's 
nostrils,  while  the  persistent  piping  of  the  frogs  in  the 
hollows  fluctuated  in  his  depressed  consciousness. 

Calvin  had  drawn  rein  and  sat  on  his  horse  in  the  road. 
He  was  trying  to  picture  Hannah  standing  in  the  door 
waiting  for  him,  to  hear  her  calling  him  from  work;  but 
always  Phebe  intervened  with  her  travesty  of  Hannah's 
clear  loveliness. 


IV 

Again  at  the  Braleys'  he  found  the  family  —  in  the 
kitchen  —  listening  with  absorbed  interest  to  Phebe's 
stories  of  life  and  the  stage.  Richmond  Braley  sat  with 
an  undisguised  wonderment  and  frequent  exclamations; 
there  was  a  faint  flush  in  Mrs.  Braley's  dun  cheeks; 
Susan  tried  without  success  to  strangle  her  coughing. 
Only  Hosmer  was  unmoved;  at  times  he  nodded  in  recog 
nition  of  the  realities  of  Phebe's  narratives;  his  attitude 
was  one  of  complacent  understanding. 

Calvin,  at  last  succeeding  in  catching  Hannah's  atten 
tion,  made  a  suggestive  gesture  toward  the  front  of  the 
house,  but  she  ignored  his  desire.  She,  more  than  any  of 
the  others,  was  intent  upon  Phebe.  And  he  realized  that 
Phebe  paid  her  a  special  attention. 

"  My,"  she  exclaimed,  "  the  healthy  life  has  put  you 
in  the  front  row.  Ned  Higmann  would  rave  about  your 
shape  and  airs.  It's  too  bad  to  bury  them  here  in  the 
mountains.  I  reckon  you  love  me  for  that  " —  she  turned 
cheerfully  to  Calvin  — "  but  it's  the  truth.  If  you  could 

[23] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

do  anything  at  all,  Hannah,  you'd  lead  a  chorus  and  go 
in  the  olio.  And  you  would  draw  at  the  stage  door  better 
than  you  would  on  the  front.  Young  and  fresh  as  a  daisy 
spells  champagne  and  diamond  garters.  I  don't  believe 
they'd  let  you  stay  in  burlesque  but  sign  you  for  comic 
opera." 

The  blood  beat  angrily  in  Calvin  Stammark's  head. 
Whatever  did  Phebe  mean  by  talking  like  that  to  Hannah 
just  when  she  was  to  marry  him!  He  cursed  silently  at 
Richmond  Braley's  fatuous  face,  at  Mrs.  Braley's  endorse 
ment  of  all  that  her  eldest  daughter  related,  at  Hosmer's 
assumption  of  worldly  experience.  But  Hannah's  man 
ner  filled  him  with  apprehension. 

"  It's  according  to  how  you  feel,"  Phebe  continued; 
"  some  like  to  get  up  of  a  black  winter  morning  and  fight 
the  kitchen  fire.  I  don't.  Some  women  are  happy  hand 
ing  plates  to  their  husband  while  he  puts  down  a  square 
feed.  Not  in  mine." 

"  The  loneliness  is  what  I  hate,"  Hannah  added. 

"  It's  hell,"  the  other  agreed.     "  Excuse  me,  ma." 

Hannah  went  on:  "  And  you  get  old  without  ever  seeing 
things.  There  is  all  that  you  tell  about  going  on  —  those 
crowds  and  the  jewels  and  dresses,  the  parties  and  elegant 
times;  but  there  is  never  a  whisper  of  it  in  Greenstream; 
nothing  but  the  frogs  that  I  could  fairly  scream  at  —  and 
maybe  a  church  social."  As  she  talked  Hannah  avoided 
Calvin  Stammark's  gaze. 

"  Me  and  you'll  have  a  conversation,"  Phebe  promised 
her  recklessly. 

Choking  with  rage  Calvin  rose.  "  I  might  as  well 
move  along,"  he  asserted. 

[24] 


LONELY    VALLEYS 

"  Don't  get  heated,"  Phebe  advised  him.  "  I  wouldn't 
break  up  your  happy  home,  only  I  want  Hannah  to  have 
an  idea  of  what's  what.  I  don't  doubt  you'll  get  her  for 
a  wife." 

"  There's  nothing  but  slaving  for  a  woman  round  here," 
Mrs.  Braley  put  in.  "  I'm  right  glad  Phebe  had  so  much 
spirit." 

Richmond  Braley  evidently  thought  it  was  time  for  cer 
tain  reservations.  "  You  mustn't  come  down  so  hard  on 
Calvin  and  me,"  he  said  practically.  "  We're  both  likely 
young  fellows." 

"  I'll  be  here  evening  after  to-morrow,"  Calvin  told 
Hannah  in  a  low  voice. 

She  nodded  without  interest.  They  must  be  married 
at  once,  he  decided,  his  wise  horse  following  unerringly 
the  rocky  road,  stepping  through  splashing  dark  fords. 
If  there  was  a  repetition  of  the  past  visit  he  would  have 
something  to  say.  Hannah  was  his,  she  was  promised  to 
him.  He  felt  the  coolness  of  her  cheeks,  her  bright 
mouth  against  his.  A  tyranny  of  misery  and  desire 
flooded  him  at  the  sudden  danger  —  it  was  as  much  as 
that  —  threatening  his  happiness  and  life. 

It  was  a  danger  founded  on  his  entire  ignorance  of 
what  he  must  combat.  He  couldn't  visualize  it,  but  it 
never  occurred  to  him  that  Hannah  would  actually  go 
away  —  leave  him  and  Greenstream.  No,  it  was  a  qual 
ity  in  Hannah  herself,  a  thing  that  had  always  lurked  be 
low  the  surface,  beyond  his  knowledge  until  now.  Yet  he 
realized  that  it  formed  a  part  of  her  appeal,  a  part  of  her 
distinction  over  the  other  girls  of  the  county. 

Maybe  it  was  because  he  was  never  in  his  heart  abso- 
[25] 


THE   HAPPY    END 

lately  certain  of  her  —  even  when  she  was  closest  to  him 
she  seemed  to  slip  away  beyond  his  power  to  follow.  His 
love,  he  acknowledged  for  the  first  time,  had  never  been 
easy  or  contented  or  happy.  It  had  been  obscure,  like 
the  night  about  him  now;  it  resembled  a  fire  that  he  held 
in  his  bare  hands.  Hannah's  particularity,  too,  was  allied 
to  this  strange  newly-awakened  peril.  In  a  manner  it  was 
that  which  had  carried  Phebe  out  of  the  mountains.  Now 
the  resemblance  between  them  was  far  stronger  than  their 
difference. 

There  was  more  than  a  touch  of  all  this  in  the  girls' 
mother,  in  her  bitterness  and  discontent.  He  felt  that  he 
hated  the  elder  as  much  as  he  did  Phebe.  If  the  latter 
were  a  man 

He  dressed  with  the  greatest  care  for  his  next  evening 
with  Hannah.  Hosmer  wore  no  stiffer  nor  whiter  collar, 
and  Calvin's  necktie  was  a  pure  gay  silk.  He  arrived 
just  as  the  moon  detached  itself  from  the  fringe  of 
mountain  peaks  and  the  frogs  started  insistently.  His 
heart  was  heavy  but  his  manner  calm,  determined,  as  he 
entered  the  Braley  kitchen.  No  one  was  there  but  Susan; 
soon  however,  Phebe  entered  in  an  amazing  slovenly  wrap 
per  with  a  lace  edge  turned  back  from  her  ample  throat; 
and  Hannah  followed. 

Phebe  made  a  mocking  reference  to  the  sofa  in 
the  parlor,  and  Hannah's  expression  was  distasteful; 
but  she  slowly  followed  Calvin  into  the  conventional 
chamber. 

He  made  no  attempt  to  embrace  her,  but  said  instead: 
"  I  came  to  fix  the  day  for  our  wedding." 

"  Phebe  wants  me  to  go  with  her  for  a  little  first,"  she 
[26] 


LONELY    VALLEYS 

replied  indirectly.  "  She  says  I  can  come  back  whenever 
I  like." 

"  Your  Phebe  has  no  say  in  it."  He  spoke  harshly. 
"  We're  honestly  promised  to  each  other  and  don't  need 
outside  advice  or  interference." 

"  Don't  you  go  to  call  Phebe  *  outside,'  "  she  retorted. 
"  She's  my  sister.  Perhaps  it's  a  good  thing  she  came 
when  she  did,  and  saved  me  from  being  buried.  Perhaps 
I'm  not  aiming  to  be  married  right  off." 


Hannah  was  standing,  a  hand  on  the  table  that  held 
the  pink-shaded  lamp,  and  the  light  showed  her  petu 
lant  and  antagonistic.  A  flare  of  anger  threatened  to  shut 
all  else  from  Calvin's  thoughts;  but  suddenly  he  was  con 
scious  of  the  necessity  for  care  —  care  and  patience.  He 
forced  back  his  justified  sense  of  wrong. 

"  I  wasn't  referring  direct  to  Phebe,"  he  told  her.  "  I 
meant  that  between  us  nobody  else  matters,  no  one  in  the 
world  is  of  any  importance  to  me  but  you.  It's  all  I 
think  about.  When  I  was  building  the  house,  our  house, 
I  hammered  you  into  it  with  every  nail.  It  is  sort  of 
made  out  of  you/'  he  foundered;  "  like  —  like  I  am." 

He  could  see  her  relenting  in  the  loss  of  the  rigidity  of 
her  pose.  Hannah's  head  drooped  and  her  fingers  tapped 
faintly  on  the  table.  He  moved  closer,  urging  his  advan 
tage. 

"  We're  all  but  married,  Hannah ;  our  carpet  is  being 
wove  and  that  suite  of  furniture  ordered  through  Priest. 
You've  been  upset  by  this  talk  of  theaters  and  such. 

[27] 


THE   HAPPY    END 

You'd  get  tired  of  them  and  that  fly-by-night  life  in  a 
month." 

"  Phebe  hasn't." 

"  What  suits  one  doesn't  suit  all,"  he  said  concisely. 

"  It  would  suit  more  girls  than  you  know  for,"  she  in 
formed  him.  "  Take  it  round  here,  there's  nothing  to  do 
but  get  married,  and  all  the  change  is  from  one  kitchen  to 
another.  You  don't  even  have  a  way  to  match  up  fellows. 
Soon  as  you're  out  of  short  skirts  one  of  them  visits  with 
you  and  the  rest  stay  away  like  you  had  the  smallpox. 
Our  courting  lasted  a  week  and  you  were  here  four  times." 

"  We  haven't  much  time,  Hannah,"  he  reminded  her. 
"  It  was  right  hard  for  me  to  see  you  that  often.  There 
was  a  smart  of  things  you  were  doing,  too." 

"  The  more  fool !  "  she  exclaimed. 

Again  his  resentment  promised  to  leap  beyond  con 
trol.  He  clenched  his  hands  and  stared  with  contracted 
eyes  at  the  floor. 

"  Well,"  he  articulated  finally,  "  we're  promised  any 
how;  that  can't  be  denied.  I  have  your  word." 

"  Yes,"  she  admitted,  "  but  chance  that  I  went  with 
Phebe  doesn't  mean  I'd  never  come  back." 

"  It  would  mean  that  you'd  never  come  back,"  he  para 
phrased  her. 

"  Maybe  I  would  know  better,"  she  answered  quickly. 
"  I'm  sorry,  Calvin.  I  didn't  go  to  be  so  sharp.  Only  I 
don't  know  what's  right,"  she  went  on  unhappily. 

"  It  isn't  what's  right,"  he  corrected  her,  "  but  what 
you  want.  I  wish  Phebe  had  stayed  away  a  little  longer." 

"  There  you  go  again  at  Phebe !  "  she  protested. 

He  replied  grimly;  "  Not  half  what  I  feel." 
[28] 


LONELY    VALLEYS 

In  a  dangerously  calm  voice  she  inquired,  "  What's  the 
rest  then?  " 

"  She's  a  trouble-maker,"  he  asserted  in  a  shaking  tone 
over  which  he  seemed  to  have  no  command;  "  she  came 
back  to  Greenstream  and  for  no  reason  but  her  own  slinked 
into  our  happiness.  Your  whole  family  —  even  Hosmer, 
pretending  to  be  so  wise  —  are  blind  as  bats.  You  can't 
even  see  that  Phebe's  hair  is  as  dyed  as  her  stories.  She 
says  she  is  on  the  stage,  but  it's  a  pretty  stage!  I've  been 
to  Stanwick  and  seen  those  Parisian  Dainties  and  bur 
lesque  shows.  They're  nothing  but  a  lot  of  half-naked 
women  cavorting  and  singing  fast  songs.  And  the  show 
only  begins  —  with  most  of  them  —  when  the  curtain 
drops.  If  I  even  try  to  think  of  you  in  that  I  get 
sick." 

"  Go  on,"  Hannah  stammered,  scarcely  above  her 
breath. 

"  It's  bad,"  Calvin  Stammark  went  on.  "  The  women 
are  bad;  and  a  bad  woman  is  something  awful.  I  know 
about  that  too.  I've  been  to  the  city  as  well  as  Phebe. 
Oh,  Hannah,"  he  cried,  "can't  you  see,  can't  you!" 
With  a  violent  effort  he  regained  the  greater  part  of  his 
composure.  "  But  it  won't  touch  you,"  he  added;  "  we're 
going  to  be  married  right  away." 

"  We  are?  "  Hannah  echoed  him  thinly,  in  bitter  mock 
ery.  "  I  wouldn't  have  you  now  if  you  were  the  last  man 
on  earth,  with  the  way  you  talked  about  Phebe!  I  don't 
see  how  you  can  stand  there  and  look  at  me.  If  I  told  pa 
or  Hosmer  they  would  shoot  you.  You  might  as  well 
know  this  as  well  —  I'm  going  back  with  her;  it'll  be  some 
gayer  than  these  lonely  old  valleys  or  your  house  stuck 

[29] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

away  all  by  itself  with  nothing  to  see  but  Senator  Alder- 
with's  steers." 

There  flashed  into  Calvin  Stammark's  mind  the  memory 
of  how  he  had  planned  to  possess  just  such  cattle  for  Han 
nah  and  himself;  he  saw  in  the  elusive  lamplight  the 
house  he  had  built  for  Hannah.  His  feeling,  that  a  sec 
ond  before  had  been  so  acute,  was  numb.  This,  he 
thought,  was  strange;  a  voice  within  echoed  that  he  was 
going  to  lose  her,  to  lose  Hannah;  but  he  had  no  faculty 
capable  of  understanding  such  a  calamity. 

"Why,  Hannah,"  he  said  impotently  — "  Han 
nah  "  His  vision  blurred  so  that  he  couldn't  see  her 

clearly;  it  was  as  if,  indistinct  before  him,  she  were  al 
ready  fading  from  his  life.  "  I  never  went  to  hurt  you," 
he  continued  in  a  curious  detachment  from  his  suffering. 
"  You  were  everything  I  had." 

Calvin  grew  awkward,  confused  in  his  mind  and 
gestures.  At  the  same  time  Hannah's  desirability  in 
creased  immeasurably.  Never  in  Greenstream  or  any 
place  else  had  he  seen  another  like  her;  and  he  was  about 
to  lose  her,  lose  Hannah. 

Automatically  he  repeated,  "If  Phebe  were  a  man " 

He  was  powerless  not  only  against  exterior  circumstance 
but  to  combat  what  lay  with  Hannah.  Phebe  would  never 
set  her  hands  in  hot  dishwater.  He  recalled  their  mother, 
fretful  and  impatient.  He  shook  his  head  as  if  to  free  his 
mind  from  so  many  vain  thoughts.  She  stood,  hard  and 
unrelenting. 

He  tried  to  mutter  a  phrase  about  being  here  if  she 
should  return,  but  it  perished  in  the  conviction  of  its  use- 
lessness.  Calvin  saw  her  with  green-yellow  hair,  a  ciga- 

[30] 


LONELY    VALLEYS 

rette  in  painted  lips;  he  heard  the  blurred  applause  of 
men  at  the  spectacle  of  Hannah  on  the  stage,  dressed  like 
the  women  he  had  seen  there.  Then  pride  stiffened  him 
into  a  semblance  of  her  own  remoteness. 

"  It's  in  you,"  he  said;  "  and  it  will  have  to  come  out. 
I'm  what  I  am  too,  and  that  doesn't  make  it  any  easier. 
Kind  of  a  fool  about  you.  Another  girl  won't  do.  I'll 
say  good  night." 

He  turned  and  abruptly  quitted  the  room  and  all  his 
hope. 

VI 

When  the  furniture  Calvin  had  ordered  through  the 
catalogue  at  Priest's  store  arrived  by  mountain  wagon  he 
placed  it  in  the  room  beside  the  kitchen  that  was  to  have 
been  Hannah's  and  his.  Hannah  had  gone  three  weeks 
before  with  Phebe.  This  done  he  sat  for  a  long  while 
on  the  portico  of  his  house,  facing  the  rich  bottom  pastur 
age  and  high  verdant  range  beyond.  It  was  late  afternoon 
and  the  rift  was  filling  with  a  golden  haze  from  a  sun 
veiled  in  watery  late-spring  vapors.  An  old  apple  tree  by 
the  road  was  flushed  with  pink  blossoms  and  a  mocking 
bird  was  whistling  with  piercing  sweetness. 

Soon  it  would  be  evening  and  the  frogs  would  begin 
again,  the  frogs  and  whippoorwills.  The  valley,  just  as 
Hannah  had  said,  was  lonely.  He  stirred  and  later  found 
himself  some  supper  —  in  the  kitchen  where  everything 
was  new. 

On  the  following  morning  he  left  the  Greenstream  settle 
ment;  it  was  Friday,  and  Monday  he  returned  with  Ettie, 
his  sister.  She  was  remarkably  like  him  —  tall  and  an- 

[31] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

gular,  with  a  gaunt  face  and  steady  blue  eyes.  Older 
than  Calvin,  she  had  settled  into  a  complete  acquiescence 
with  whatever  life  brought;  no  more  for  her  than  the  keep 
ing  of  her  brother's  house.  Calvin,  noting  the  efficient 
manner  in  which  she  ordered  their  material  affairs,  won 
dered  at  the  fact  that  she  had  not  been  married.  Men 
were  unaccountable,  but  none  more  than  himself,  with  his 
unquenchable  longing  for  Hannah. 

This  retreated  to  the  back  of  his  being.  He  never  spoke 
of  her.  Indeed  he  tried  to  put  her  from  his  thoughts,  and 
with  a  measure  of  success.  But  it  never  occurred  to  him 
to  consider  any  other  girl;  that  possibility  was  closed. 
Those  he  saw  —  and  they  were  uniformly  kind,  even  in 
viting  —  were  dull  after  Hannah. 

Instead  he  devoted  himself  to  the  equivalent,  in  his 
undertakings,  of  Ettie's  quiet  capability.  The  following 
year  a  small  number  of  the  steers  grazing  beyond  the 
road  were  his;  in  two  years  more  Senator  Alderwith  died, 
and  there  was  a  division  of  his  estate,  in  which  Calvin 
assumed  large  liabilities,  paying  them  as  he  had  con 
tracted.  The  timber  in  Sugarloaf  Valley  drew  speculat 
ors —  he  sold  options  and  bought  a  place  in  the  logging 
development. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  he  grew  older,  in  appearance  any 
how,  with  exceptional  rapidity;  his  face  grew  leaner  and 
his  beard,  which  he  continued  to  shave,  was  soiled  with 
gray  hair. 

He  avoided  the  Braleys  and  their  clearing;  and  when 
circumstance  drew  him  into  conversation  with  Richmond 
or  Hosmer  he  studiously  spoke  of  indifferent  things.  He 
heard  nothing  of  Hannah.  Yet  he  learned  in  the  various 

[32] 


LONELY    VALLEYS 

channels  of  communication  common  to  remote  localities 
that  Richmond  Braley  was  doing  badly.  Hosmer  went  to 
bank  in  one  of  the  newly  prosperous  towns  of  West  Vir 
ginia  and  apparently  left  all  family  obligations  behind; 
Susan  died  of  lung  fever;  and  then,  at  the  post-office, 
Calvin  was  told  that  Richmond  himself  was  dangerously 
sick. 

He  left  the  mail  with  Ettie  at  his  door  and  rode  on, 
turning  for  the  first  time  in  nine  years  into  the  narrow 
valley  of  the  Braleys'  home.  The  place  had  been  neg 
lected  until  it  was  hardly  distinguishable  from  the  sur 
rounding  tangled  wild.  Such  sheep  as  he  saw  were  in 
wretched  condition,  wild  and  massed  with  filth  and  burrs. 

Mrs.  Braley  was  filling  a  large  glass  flask  with  hot 
water  for  her  husband;  and  to  Calvin's  surprise  a  child 
with  a  quantity  of  straight  pale-brown  hair  and  wide- 
opened  hazel-brown  eyes  was  seated  in  the  kitchen  watch 
ing  her. 

"  How  is  Richmond?  "  he  asked,  his  gaze  straying  in 
voluntarily  to  the  girl. 

"  Kingdom  Gome's  how  he  is,"  Lucy  Braley  replied. 
"  Yes,  and  the  poorhouse  will  end  us  unless  Hosmer  has 
a  spark  of  good  feeling.  I  sent  him  a  postal  card  to 
come  a  long  while  back,  but  he  hasn't  so  much  as  an 
swered.  Here,  Lucy" — she  turned  to  the  child — "run 
up  with  this." 

"Lucy?"  Calvin  Stammark  asked  when  they  were 
alone. 

"  Been  here  two  weeks,"  Mrs.  Braley  told  him.  "  What 
will  become  of  her's  beyond  me.  She  is  Hannah's  daugh 
ter,  and  Hannah  is  dead." 

[33] 


THE   HAPPY    END 

There  was  a  sharp  constriction  of  Calvin's  heart.  Han 
nah's  daughter,  and  Hannah  was  dead! 

"  As  far  as  I  know,"  the  other  continued  in  a  strained 
metallic  voice,  "  the  child's  got  no  father  you  could  fix. 
Her  mother  wrote  the  name  was  Lucy  Vibard,  and  she'd 
called  her  after  me.  But  when  I  asked  her  she  didn't  seem 
to  know  anything  about  it. 

"  Hannah  was  alone  and  dog  poor  when  she  died,  that's 
certain.  Like  everything  else  I  can  lay  mind  on  she  came 
to  a  bad  end  —  Lord  reckons  where  Phebe  is.  I  always 
thought  you  were  weak  fingered  to  let  Hannah  go  —  with 
that  house  built  and  all.  I  suppose  maybe  you  weren't, 
though;  well  out  of  a  slack  bargain." 

Calvin  Stammark  scarcely  heard  her;  his  being  was 
possessed  by  the  pitiable  image  of  Hannah  dying  alone 
and  dog  poor.  He  had  always  pictured  her  —  except  in 
the  fleet  vision  of  debasement  —  as  young  and  graceful 
and  disturbing.  Without  further  speech  he  left  the 
kitchen  and  crossed  the  house  to  the  shut  parlor.  It  was 
screened  against  the  day,  dim  and  musty  and  damp. 
The  orange  plush  of  the  chairs  and  the  narrow  uncom 
fortable  sofa,  carefully  dusted,  was  as  bright  as  it  had 
been  when  he  had  last  seen  it  —  was  it  ten  years  ago? 

Here  she  had  stood,  her  fingers  tapping  on  the  table, 
when  he  had  made  the  unfortunate  remark  about  Phebe; 
the  lamplight  had  illuminated  her  right  cheek.  Here  she 
had  proclaimed  her  impatience  with  Greenstream,  with  its 
loneliness,  her  hunger  for  life.  Here  he  had  lost  her.  A 
sudden  need  to  see  Hannah's  daughter  invaded  him  and  he 
returned  to  the  kitchen. 

The  child  was  present,  silent;  she  had  Hannah's  eyes, 
[34] 


LONELY    VALLEYS 

Hannah's  hair.  Seated  by  Richmond  Braley's  bed  he 
realized  instantly  that  the  old  man  was  dying;  and  men 
tally  he  composed  the  urgent  message  to  be  sent  to  Hosmer. 
But  that  failed  to  settle  the  problem  of  'Lucy's  safety  — 
Hannah's  Lucy,  who  might  have  been  his  too.  The  solu 
tion  of  that  difficulty  slowly  took  form  in  his  thoughts. 
There  was  no  need  to  discuss  it  with  Ettie  —  his  duty,  yes, 
and  his  desire  was  clear. 

He  took  her  home  directly  after  Richmond's  funeral, 
an  erratic  wind  blowing  her  soft  loose  hair  against  his  face 
as  he  drove. 


VII 

There  had  been  additions  to  Calvin  Stammark's  house 
—  the  half  story  raised,  and  the  length  increased  by  a 
room.  This  was  now  furnished  as  the  parlor  and  had  an 
entrance  from  the  porch  extended  across  the  face  of  the 
dwelling;  the  middle  lower  room  was  his;  the  chamber 
designed  for  his  married  life  was  a  seldom  used  dining 
room;  while  Ettie  and  Lucy  were  above.  A  number  of 
sheds  for  stabling  and  implements,  chicken  coops  and  pig 
pen  had  accumulated  at  the  back ;  the  corn  and  buckwheat 
climbed  the  mountain ;  and  the  truck  patch  was  wide  and 
luxuriant. 

A  narrow  strip,  bright,  in  season,  with  the  petunias  and 
cinnamon  pinks  which  Ettie  tended,  separated  the  dwell 
ing  from  the  public  road;  and  the  flowers  more  than  any 
thing  else  attracted  Hannah's  daughter.  Calvin  talked 
with  her  infrequently,  but  a  great  deal  of  his  silent  atten 
tion  was  directed  at  the  child. 

[35] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

Already  Lucy  had  a  quality  of  appeal  to  which  he 
watched  Ettie  respond.  The  latter  took  a  special  pride 
in  making  Lucy  as  pretty  as  possible;  in  the  after 
noon  she  would  dress  her  in  sheer  white  with  a  ribbon  in 
her  hair.  She  spared  Lucy  many  of  the  details  of  house 
work  in  which  the  latter  could  have  easily  assisted  her; 
and  when  Calvin  protested  she  replied  that  she  was  so 
accustomed  to  doing  that  it  was  easier  for  her  to  go  ahead. 

Calvin's  feelings  were  mixed.  At  first  he  had  told  him 
self  that  Lucy  would  be,  in  a  way,  his  daughter;  he  would 
bring  her  up  as  his  own ;  and  in  the  end  what  he  had  would 
be  hers,  just  as  it  should  have  been  Hannah's.  However, 
his  attitude  was  never  any  that  might  be  recognized  as  that 
of  parenthood.  He  never  grew  completely  accustomed  to 
her  presence,  she  was  always  a  subject  of  interest  and  spec 
ulation.  He  continued  to  get  pleasure  from  her  slender 
graceful  being  and  the  little  airs  of  delicacy  she  assumed. 

He  was  conscious,  certainly,  that  Lucy  was  growing 
older  —  yet  not  so  fast  as  he  —  but  he  had  a  shock  of 
surprise  when  she  informed  him  that  she  was  fifteen. 
Calvin  pinched  her  cheek,  and,  sitting  on  the  porch, 
heard  her  within  issuing  a  peremptory  direction  to  Ettie. 
The  elder  made  no  reply  and,  he  knew,  did  as  Lucy 
wished.  This  disturbed  him.  There  wasn't  a  finer 
woman  living  than  Ettie  Stammark,  and  he  didn't  purpose 
to  have  Lucy  impudent  to  her.  Lucy,  he  decided,  was 
getting  a  little  beyond  them.  She  was  quick  at  her  les 
sons,  the  Greenstream  teacher  said.  Lucy  would  have 
considerable  property  when  he  died ;  he'd  like  her  to  have 
all  the  advantages  possible;  and  —  very  suddenly  —  Cal 
vin  decided  to  send  her  away  to  school,  to  Stan  wick,  the 

[36] 


LONELY    VALLEYS 

small  city  to  and  from  which  the  Greenstream  stage 
drove. 

She  returned  from  her  first  term  at  Christmas,  full  of 
her  experiences  with  teachers  and  friends,  to  which  Ettie 
and  he  listened  with  absorbed  attention.  Now  she  seemed 
farther  from  him  than  before;  and  he  saw  that  a  likeness 
to  Hannah  was  increasing;  not  in  appearance  —  though 
that  was  not  dissimilar  —  but  in  the  quality  that  had  es 
tablished  Hannah's  difference  from  other  girls,  the  qual 
ity  for  which  he  had  never  found  a  name.  The  assump 
tions  of  Lucy's  childhood  had  become  strongly  marked 
preferences  for  the  flowers  of  existence,  the  ease  of  the 
portico  rather  than  the  homely  labor  of  the  back  of  the 
house. 

Neither  his  sister  nor  he  resented  this  or  felt  that  Lucy 
was  evading  her  just  duties ;  rather  they  enjoyed  its  differ 
ence  from  their  own  practical  beings  and  affairs.  They 
could  afford  to  have  her  in  fresh  laundered  frills  and  they 
secretly  enjoyed  the  manner  in  which  she  instructed  them 
in  social  conventions. 

At  her  home-coming  for  the  summer  she  brought  to  an 
end  the  meals  in  the  kitchen ;  but  when  she  left  once  more 
for  Stanwick  and  school  Ettie  and  Calvin  without  remark 
drifted  back  to  the  comfortable  convenience  of  the  table 
near  the  cooking  stove. 

This  period  of  Lucy's  experience  at  an  end  she  arrived 
in  Greenstream  on  a  hot  still  June  evening.  Neither  Cal 
vin  nor  his  sister  had  been  able  to  go  to  Stanwick  for  the 
school  commencement,  and  Calvin  had  been  too  late  to 
meet  the  stage.  After  the  refreshing  cold  water  in  the 
bright  tin  basin  by  the  kitchen  door  he  went  to  his  room 

[37] 


THE   HAPPY    END 

for  a  presentable  necktie  and  handkerchief  —  Lucy  was 
very  severe  about  the  latter  —  and  then  walked  into  the 
dining  room. 

The  lamp  was  not  yet  lit,  the  light  was  elusive,  tender, 
and  his  heart  contracted  violently  at  the  youthful  yet  ma 
ture  back  toward  him.  She  turned  slowly,  a  hand  resting 
on  the  table,  and  Calvin  Stammark's  senses  swam.  An 
inner  confusion  invaded  him,  pierced  by  a  sharp  unutter 
able  longing. 

"  Hannah, "  he  whispered. 

She  smiled  and  advanced;  but,  his  heart  pounding,  Cal 
vin  retreated.  He  must  say  something  reasonable,  tell  her 
that  they  were  glad  to  have  her  back  —  mustn't  leave  them 
again.  She  kissed  him,  and,  his  eyes  shut,  the  touch  of 
her  lips  re-created  about  him  the  parlor  of  the  Braleys, — 
the  stiffly  arranged  furniture  with  its  gay  plush,  the  var 
nished  fretwork  of  the  organ,  the  pink  glow  of  the  lamp. 

She  was  Hannah !  The  resemblance  was  so  perfect  — 
her  cheek's  turn,  her  voice,  sweet  with  a  trace  of  petulance, 
her  fingers  —  that  it  was  sustained  in  a  flooding  illumina 
tion  through  the  commonplace  revealing  act  of  supper.  It 
was  as  if  the  eighteen  years  since  Hannah,  his  Hannah, 
was  a  reality  were  but  momentary,  the  passage  of  the 
valley.  His  love  for  her  was  unchanged  —  no,  here  at 
least,  was  a  difference;  it  was  greater,  keener;  exactly  as  if 
during  the  progress  of  their  intimacy  he  had  been  obliged 
to  go  away  from  her  for  a  while. 

She  accompanied  Ettie  to  the  kitchen  and  Calvin  sat  on 
the  porch  in  a  gathering  darkness  throbbing  with  frogs 
and  perfumed  with  drifting  locust  blooms.  Constellation 

[38] 


LONELY    VALLEYS 

by  constellation  the  stars  glimmered  into  being.  Hannah, 
Lucy!  They  mingled  and  in  his  fiber  were  forever  one. 
He  gave  himself  up  to  the  beauty  of  his  passion,  purified 
and  intense  from  long  patience  and  wanting,  amazed  at  the 
miracle  that  had  brought  back  everything  infinitely  desir 
able. 

He  forgot  his  age,  and,  preparing  for  the  night,  saw  with 
a  sense  of  personal  outrage  his  seamed  countenance  re 
flected  in  the  mirror  of  the  bureau.  Yet  in  reality  he 
wasn't  old  —  forty-something  —  still,  not  fifty.  He  was 
as  hard  and  nearly  as  springy  as  a  hickory  sapling. 
There  was  a  saying  in  which  he  found  vast  comfort  —  the 
prime,  the  very  prime  of  life. 


VIII 

His  enormous  difficulty  would  be  to  bring  Lucy  to  the 
understanding  of  his  new  —  but  it  was  the  old  —  attitude 
toward  her.  If  she  had  never  become  completely  familiar 
to  him  association  had  made  him  a  solid  recognized  part 
of  her  existence;  if  not  exactly  a  father,  an  uncle  at  the 
very  least.  Calvin  realized  that  she  would  be  profoundly 
shocked  by  any  abrupt  revelation  of  his  feeling.  Yet  he 
was  for  the  time  in  no  hurry  to  bring  about  the  desired 
change  in  their  relationship.  His  life  had  been  so  long 
empty  that  it  was  enough  to  dwell  on  the  great  happiness 
of  his  repossession. 

This,  he  knew,  could  not  continue,  but  at  present,  to 
day,  it  was  almost  enough.  Before  he  was  aware,  the 
summer  had  gone,  the  mountains  were  sheeted  in  gold;  and 

[39] 


THE   HAPPY    END 

he  was  still  dreaming,  putting  off  the  actuality  before 
them. 

The  logging  in  Sugarloaf  Valley  had  grown  to  an  opera 
tion  of  importance,  and  a  great  deal  of  his  time  was  spent 
watching  the  spur  of  railroad  creep  forward  and  the  clear 
ing  of  new  sections;  sawmills  and  camps  were  in  course 
of  erection;  and  what  had  been  a  still  green  cleft  in  the 
mountains  was  filled  with  human  activity.  He  had  se 
cured  an  advantageous  position  for  a  young  man  from  the 
part  of  the  county  inhabited  by  the  Stammark  family,  Wil- 
mer  Deakon,  and  consulted  with  him  frequently  in  con 
nection  with  his  interests. 

Wilmer  was  to  the  last  degree  dependable ;  a  large  grave 
individual  who  took  a  serious  interest  in  the  welfare  of 
his  fellows  and  supported  established  customs  and  institu 
tions.  He  sang  in  a  resounding  barytone  with  the  Metho 
dist  Church  choir;  his  dignified  bearing  gave  weight  to 
the  school  board;  and  he  accumulated  a  steadily  growing 
capital  at  the  Greenstream  bank.  An  admirable  individ 
ual,  Calvin  thought,  and  extended  to  him  the  wide  hospi 
tality  of  his  house. 

Lucy  apparently  had  little  to  say  to  Wilmer  Deakon; 
indeed,  when  he  was  not  present,  to  their  great  amusement 
she  imitated  his  deliberate  balanced  speech.  She  said 
that  he  was  too  solemn  —  an  opinion  with  which  Calvin 
privately  agreed  —  and  made  an  irreverent  play  on  his 
name  and-  the  place  he  should  occupy  in  the  church.  It 
seemed  that  she  found  a  special  pleasure  in  annoying  him; 
and  on  an  occasion  when  Calvin  had  determined  to  re 
prove  her  for  this  he  was  surprised  by  Wilmer's  request  to 
speak  to  him  outside. 

[40] 


LONELY   VALLEYS 

Wilmer  Deakon  said  abruptly:  "Lucy  and  I  are 
promised  to  each  other." 

Calvin  stood  gazing  at  him  in  a  lowering  complete 
surprise,  at  a  loss  for  words,  when  the  other  continued 
with  an  intimation  of  his  peculiar  qualifications  for  mat 
rimony,  the  incontrovertible  fact  that  he  could  and  would 
take  care  of  Lucy.  He  stopped  at  the  appropriate  moment 
and  waited  confidently  for  Calvin  Stammark's  approval. 

The  latter,  out  of  a  gathering  immeasurable  rage,  almost 
shouted :  "  You  get  to  hell  off  my  place !  " 

Wilmer  Deakon  was  astounded  but  otherwise  unshaken. 
"  That's  no  way  to  answer  a  decent  man  and  a  proper 
question,"  he  replied.  "  Lucy  and  I  want  to  be  married. 
There's  nothing  wrong  with  that.  But  you  look  as  if  I 
had  offered  to  disgrace  her.  Why,  Mr.  Stammark,  you 
can't  keep  her  forever.  I  reckon  it'll  be  hard  on  you  to 
have  her  go,  but  you  must  make  up  your  mind  to  it  some 
day.  She's  willing,  and  you  know  all  about  me.  Then 
Lucy  won't  be  far  away  from  you  all.  I've  cleared  the 
brush  up  and  right  now  the  bottom  of  our  house  is  laid  in 
Sugarloaf." 

Calvin's  anger  sank  before  a  sense  of  helplessness  at  this 
latter  fact.  Wilmer  was  building  a  house  for  her  just  as 
he  had  built  one  for  Hannah.  He  remembered  his  delight 
and  pride  as  it  had  approached  completion;  he  remem 
bered  the  evening,  nearly  twenty  years  ago,  when  he  had 
sat  on  the  bank  across  the  road  and  seen  it  finished.  Then 
he  had  ridden,  without  waiting  to  fix  up,  to  the  Braleys'; 
Hannah  had  scolded  him  as  they  sat  in  the  parlor. 

"  I  must  talk  to  Lucy,"  he  said  in  a  different  weary 
tone. 

[41] 


THE   HAPPY    END 

Bareheaded  he  walked  over  into  the  pasture,  now  his. 
The  cattle  moved  vaguely  in  the  gloom,  with  softly  blowing 
nostrils,  and  the  streams  were  like  smooth  dark  ribbons. 
When  he  returned  to  his  house  the  lights  were  out,  Wilmer 
Deakon  was  gone  and  Lucy  was  in  bed. 

He  again  examined  his  countenance  in  the  mirror,  but 
now  he  was  surprised  that  it  was  not  haggard  with  age. 
It  seemed  that  twenty  more  years  had  been  added  to  him 
since  supper.  He  wondered  whether  there  had  ever  been 
another  man  who  had  lost  his  love  twice  and  saw  that 
he  had  been  a  blind  fool  for  not  speaking  in  the  June 
dusk  when  Lucy  had  come  back  from  school. 

Lucy,  it  developed,  had  spoken  to  Ettie,  and  there  was 
a  general  discussion  of  her  affair  at  breakfast. 

Calvin  carried  away  from  it  a  persistent  feeling  of  dis 
satisfaction,  but  for  this  he  could  find  no  tangible  reason. 
Of  course,  he  silently  argued,  the  girl  could  not  be  ex 
pected  to  show  her  love  for  Wilmer  publicly;  it  was  enough 
that  he  had  been  assured  of  its  strength;  the  fact  of  her 
agreement  to  marry  him  was  final. 

He  went  about  his  daily  activities  with  a  heavy  absent- 
mindedness,  with  a  dragging  spirit.  A  man  was  coming 
from  Washington  to  see  him  in  the  interest  of  a  new  prac 
tically  permanent  fencing,  and  he  met  him  at  the  post- 
office,  listened  to  a  loud  cheerful  greeting  with  marked 
inattention. 

The  salesman  was  named  Martin  Eckles,  and  he  was 
fashionably  dressed  in  a  suit  of  shepherd's  check  bound 
with  braid,  and  had  a  flashing  ring  —  a  broad  gold  band 
set  with  a  mystic  symbol  in  rubies  and  diamonds.  After 
his  supper  at  the  hotel  he  walked,  following  Calvin's  direc- 

[42] 


LONELY    VALLEYS 

tion,  the  short  distance  to  the  latter's  house,  where  Calvin 
and  Ettie  Stammark  and  Lucy  were  seated  on  the  porch. 

Martin  Eckles,  it  developed,  was  a  fluent  and  persua 
sive  talker,  a  man  of  the  broadest  worldly  experiences  and 
wit.  He  was  younger  than  Calvin,  but  older  than  Wil- 
mer  Deakon,  and  a  little  fat.  He  had  a  small  mustache 
cut  above  his  lip,  and  closely  shaved  ruddy  cheeks  with  a 
tinge  of  purple  about  his  ears.  Drawing  out  his  mono 
logue  entertainingly  he  gazed  repeatedly  at  Lucy.  Calvin 
lost  the  sense  of  most  that  the  other  said;  he  was  im 
mersed  in  the  past  that  had  been  made  the  present  and  then 
denied  to  him  —  it  was  all  before  him  in  the  presence  of 
Lucy,  of  Hannah  come  back  with  the  unforgetable  and 
magic  danger  of  her  appeal. 

IX 

In  the  extension  of  his  commercial  activity  Martin 
Eckles  kept  his  room  at  the  Greenstream  hotel  and  em 
ployed  a  horse  and  buggy  for  his  excursions  throughout 
the  county.  It  had  become  his  habit  to  sit  through  the 
evenings  with  the  Stammarks  where  his  flood  of  conversa 
tion  never  lessened.  Lucy  scarcely  added  a  phrase  to  the 
sum  of  talk.  She  rocked  in  her  chair  with  a  slight  end 
less  motion,  her  dreaming  gaze  fixed  on  the  dim  valley. 

Wilmer  Deakon,  on  the  occasion  of  his  first  encounter 
with  Eckles  at  the  Stammarks',  acknowledged  the  other's 
phrase  and  stood  waiting  for  Lucy  to  proceed  with  him  to 
the  parlor.  But  Lucy  was  apparently  unaware  of  this; 
she  sat  calm  and  remote  in  her  crisp  white  skirts,  while 
Wilmer  fidgeted  at  the  door. 

[43] 


THE   HAPPY   END 

Soon,  however,  she  said:  "  For  goodness*  sake,  Wil- 
mer,  whatever's  the  matter  with  you?  Can't  you  find  a 
chair  that  suits  you?  You  make  a  person  nervous." 

At  the  same-  time  she  rose  ungraciously  and  followed 
him  into  the  house. 

Wilmer  came  out,  Calvin  thought,  in  an  astonishingly 
short  time.  Courting  was  nothing  like  it  had  been  in  his 
day.  The  young  man  muttered  an  unintelligible  sentence 
that,  from  its  connection,  might  be  interpreted  as  a  good 
night,  and  strode  back  to  the  barn  and  his  horse. 

Martin  Eckles  smiled :  "  The  love  birds  must  have  been 
a  little  ruffled." 

And  Calvin,  with  a  strong  impression  of  having  heard 
such  a  thing  before,  was  vaguely  uneasy.  Eckles  sat  for  a 
long  space;  Lucy  didn't  appear,  and  at  last  the  visitor  rose 
reluctantly.  But  Lucy  had  not  gone  to  bed;  she  came  out 
on  the  porch  and  dropped  with  a  flounce  into  a  chair  be 
side  Calvin. 

"  Wilmer's  pestering  me  to  get  married  right  away," 
she  told  him;  "  before  ever  the  house  is  built.  He  seems 
to  think  I  ought  to  be  just  crazy  to  take  him  and  go  to 
that  lonely  Sugarloaf  place." 

"  It's  what  you  promised  for,"  Calvin  reminded  her; 
"  nothing's  turned  up  you  didn't  know  about." 

"  If  I  did!  "  she  exclaimed  irritably.  "  What  else  is  a 
girl  to  do,  I'd  like  to  ask?  It's  just  going  from  one  stove 
to  another,  here.  Only  it'll  be  worse  in  my  case  —  you 
and  Aunt  Ettie  have  been  lovely  to  me.  I  hate  to  cook!  " 
she  cried.  "  And  it  makes  me  sick  to  put  my  hands  in 
greasy  dishwater!  I  suppose  that's  wicked  but  I  can't 
help  it.  When  I  told  Wilmer  that  to-night  he  acted  like 

[44] 


LONELY    VALLEYS 

I'd  denied  communion.  I  can't  help  it  if  the  whippoor- 
wills  make  me  shiver,  can  I  ?  Or  if  I  want  to  see  a  per 
son  go  by  once  in  a  while.  I  —  I  don't  want  to  be  bad  — 
or  to  hurt  you  or  Wilmer.  Oh,  I'll  settle  down,  there's 
nothing  else  to  do;  I'll  marry  him  and  get  old  before  my 
time,  like  the  others." 

Calvin  Stammark  leaned  forward,  his  hands  on  his 
knees,  and  stared  at  her  in  shocked  amazement  —  Hannah 
in  every  accent  and  feeling.  The  old  sense  of  danger  and 
helplessness  flooded  him.  He  thought  of  Phebe  with  her 
dyed  hair  and  cigarette-stained  lips,  her  stories  of  the  stage 
and  life;  he  thought  of  Hannah  dying  alone  and  dog 
poor.  Now  Lucy 

"  Do  you  remember  anything  about  your  mother,"  he 
asked,  "  and  before  you  came  here?  " 

"  Only  that  we  were  dreadfully  unhappy,"  she  replied. 
"  There  was  a  boarding  house  with  actresses  washing  their 
stockings  in  the  rooms  and  a  landlady  they  were  all  afraid 
of.  There  was  beer  in  the  wash-stand  pitcher.  But  that 
wouldn't  happen  to  me,"  she  asserted;  "  I'd  be  different. 
I  might  be  an  actress,  but  in  dramas  where  my  hair  would 
be  down  and  everybody  love  me." 

"  You're  going  to  marry  Wilmer  Deakon  and  be  a  proper 
happy  wife!  "  he  declared,  bringing  his  fist  down  on  a 
hard  palm.  "  Get  this  other  nonsense  out  of  your 
head!" 

Suddenly  he  was  trembling  at  the  old  catastrophe  re 
opened  by  Lucy.  His  love  for  her,  and  his  dread,  choked 
him.  She  added  nothing  more,  but  sat  rigid  and  pale  and 
rebellious.  Before  long  she  went  in,  but  Calvin  stayed 
facing  the  darkness,  the  menace  of  the  lonely  valley.  Ex- 

[45] 


THE   HAPPY    END 

cept  for  the  lumbermen  it  would  be  worse  in  the  Sugar- 
loaf  cutting. 

Damn  the  frogs! 

Martin  Eckles  appeared  in  the  buggy  the  following 
evening  and  offered  to  carry  Lucy  for  a  short  drive  to  a 
near-by  farm;  with  an  air  of  indifference  she  accepted. 
Wilmer  didn't  call,  and  Calvin  sat  in  silent  perplexity  with 
Ettie.  The  buggy  returned  later  than  they  had  allowed, 
and  Lucy  went  up  to  bed  without  stopping  on  the 
porch. 

The  next  morning  Ettie,  with  something  in  her  hand, 
came  out  to  Calvin  at  the  stable  shed. 

"  I  found  this  in  Lucy's  room,"  she  said  simply. 

It  was  Martin  Eckles'  gold  ring,  set  with  the  insignia 
in  rubies,  suspended  in  a  loop  of  ribbon. 

A  cold  angry  certitude  formed  in  his  being.  What  a 
criminal  fool  he  had  been!  What  a  blind  booby!  His 
only  remark,  however,  brought  a  puzzled  expression  to 
Ettie's  troubled  countenance.  Calvin  Stammark  ex 
claimed,  "  Phebe  Braley."  He  was  silent  for  a  little,  his 
frowning  gaze  fixed  beyond  any  visible  object,  then  he 
added:  "Put  that  back  where  you  found  it  and  forget 
everything." 

Ettie  laid  a  hand  on  his  sleeve.  "  Now,  Calvin,"  she 
begged,  her  voice  low  and  strained,  "  promise  me " 

"Forget  everything!"   he   repeated  harshly. 

His  face  was  dark,  forbidding,  the  lines  deeply  bitten 
about  a  somber  mouth,  his  eyes  were  like  blue  ice.  He 
walked  into  Greenstream,  where  he  saw  the  proprietor 
of  the  small  single  hotel;  then,  back  in  his  room,  he  un 
wrapped  from  oiled  leather  a  heavy  blued  revolver;  and 

[46] 


LONELY    VALLEYS 

soon  after  he  saddled  his  horse  and  was  clattering  in  a 
sharp  trot  in  the  opposite  direction  from  the  village. 

It  was  dark  when,  having  returned,  he  dismounted  and 
swung  the  saddle  from  the  horse  to  its  tree.  Familiar  de 
tails  kept  him  a  long  while,  his  hands  were  steady  but  slow, 
automatic  in  movement.  He  went  in  through  the  kitchen 
past  Ettie  to  his  room,  and  after  a  little  he  re-wrapped 
the  revolver  and  laid  it  back  in  its  accustomed  place. 
Supper,  in  spite  of  Lucy's  sharp  comment,  was  set  by  the 
stove,  and  Ettie  was  solicitous  of  his  every  possible  need. 
He  ate  methodically  what  was  offered,  and  afterward  filled 
and  lit  his  pipe.  It  soon  went  out.  Once,  on  the  porch, 
he  leaned  toward  Lucy  and  awkwardly  touched  her  shoul 
der. 


Wilmer  came.  He  was  late,  and  Lucy  said  wearily, 
"  I've  got  a  headache  to-night.  Do  you  mind  if  we  stay 
out  here  in  the  cool  ?  " 

He  didn't,  and  his  confident  familiar  planning  took 
the  place  of  Martin  Eckles'  more  exciting  narratives. 

The  next  day,  past  noon,  the  proprietor  of  the  Green- 
stream  hotel  left  an  excited  group  of  men  to  stop  Calvin  as 
he  drove  in  from  Sugarloaf  Valley. 

He  cried:  "Eckles  has  been  shot  and  killed.  First 
they  found  the  horse  and  buggy  by  the  road,  and  then 
Martin  Eckles.  He  had  fallen  out.  One  bullet  did  it." 

"  That's  too  bad,"  Calvin  replied  evenly.  "  Lawless 
ness  ought  to  be  put  down."  He  had  known  Solon  En- 
treken  all  his  life.  The  level  gaze  of  two  men  encount 
ered  and  held. 

[47] 


THE   HAPPY    END 

Then:  "111  never  say  anything  against  that,"  the 
other  pronounced.  "  It's  mighty  strange  who  could  have 
shot  Eckles  and  got  clear  away.  That's  what  he  did,  in 
spite  of  hell  and  the  sheriff." 

Turning,  after  inevitable  exclamations,  toward  home, 
Calvin  found  Lucy  sitting  moodily  on  the  porch. 

"  I've  got  a  right  ugly  piece  of  news,"  he  told  her,  mask 
ing  the  painful  interest  with  which  he  followed  her  expres 
sion.  "Martin  Eckles  was  killed  yesterday;  shot  out  of 
the  buggy." 

She  grew  pale,  her  breast  rose  in  a  sudden  gasp  and  her 
hands  were  clenched. 

"  Oh!  "  she  whispered,  horrified. 

But  there  was  nothing  in  her  manner  beyond  the  natural 
detestation  of  such  brutality;  nothing,  he  saw,  hidden. 

"  He  wanted  me  to  go  away  with  him,"  she  swept  on; 
"  and  get  married  in  Stanwick.  Martin  wanted  me  to  see 
the  world.  He  said  I  ought  to,  and  not  stay  here  all  my 
life." 

The  misery  that  settled  over  her,  the  hopelessness  dull 
ing  her  youth  filled  him  with  a  passionate  resentment  at 
the  fate  that  made  her  what  she  was  and  seemingly  con 
demned  her  to  eternal  denial.  His  love  for  her  —  Lucy, 
Hannah,  Hannah,  Lucy  —  was  intolerably  keen.  He 
went  to  her,  bending  with  a  riven  hand  on  the  arm  of  her 
chair. 

"Do  you  want  Wilmer?  "  he  demanded.  "Do  you 
love  him  truly?  Is  he  enough?  " 

"  I  don't  know."  Slow  tears  wet  her  cheeks.  "  I 
can't  say.  I  ought  to;  he's  good  and  faithful,  and  with 
some  of  me  that's  enough.  But  there's  another  part;  I 

[48] 


LONELY    VALLEYS 

can't  explain  it  except  to  say  it's  a  kind  of  excitement  for 
the  life  Mr.  Eckles  told  us  about,  all  those  lights  and  res 
taurants  and  theaters.  Sometimes  I  think  I'll  die,  I  want 
it  so  much ;  then  it  comes  over  me  how  ungrateful  I  am  to 
you  and  Aunt  Ettie,  and  I  hate  myself  for  the  way  I  treat 
Wilmer." 

"  Do  you  love  him  ?  "  he  insisted. 

"  Perhaps  not  like  you  mean." 

All  that  had  been  so  long  obscured  in  his  mind  and 
heart  slowly  cleared  to  understanding  —  Lucy  Braley, 
Richmond's  wife;  Phebe;  Hannah;  and  again  Lucy,  Lucy 
Vibard  had  this  common  hunger  for  life,  for  brightness; 
they  were  as  helpless  in  its  grasp  as  he  had  been  to  hold 
Hannah.  Phebe's  return,  Martin  Eckles  —  were  only  in 
cidents  in  a  great  inner  need.  In  itself  it  wasn't  wicked; 
circumstance  had  made  it  seem  wrong;  Phebe's  greenish 
hair,  the  mark  of  so  much  spoiled,  Hannah's  unhappy 
death  —  were  the  result  of  aspirations;  they  fretted  and 
bruised,  even  killed  themselves,  like  gay  young  animals, 
innocent  animals,  in  a  dark  lonely  enclosure. 

They  were  really  finer  than  the  satisfied  women  who 
faded  to  ugliness  in  the  solitary  homes  of  the  Greenstream 
mountains;  not  better,  for  example,  than  Ettie  —  it  might 
be  that  they  weren't  so  good,  not  so  high  in  heaven;  but 
they  were  finer  in  the  manner  of  blooded  horses  rebelling 
against  the  plow  traces.  They  were  more  elegant,  slim 
mer,  with  a  greater  fire.  That  too  was  the  secret  of  their 
memorable  power  over  him;  he  wanted  a  companion  differ 
ent  from  a  kitchen  drudge;  when  he  returned  home  at  eve 
ning,  he  wanted  a  wife  cool  and  sweet  in  crisp  white  with 
a  yellow  ribbon  about  her  waist,  and  store  slippers.  He 

[49] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

loved  Lucy's  superiority  —  it  was  above  ordinary  things. 
"  Like  a  star,"  Calvin  Stammark  told  himself. 

He,  with  everything  else  that  had  combated  their  de 
sire,  depriving  them  of  the  very  necessities  for  his  adora 
tion,  had  been  to  blame. 

"  Lucy,"  he  said,  bending  over  her  and  speaking  rap 
idly,  "  let's  you  and  me  go  and  learn  all  this  life  together. 
Let's  run  away  from  Greenstream  and  Wilmer  Deakon 
and  even  Ettie,  what  we  ought  to  hold  by,  and  see  every 
theater  in  the  country.  I've  got  enough  money " 

The  radiance  of  the  gesture  by  which  she  interrupted 
his  speech  filled  him  with  pounding  joy. 

"  Oh,  shall  we!  "  she  cried;  and  then  hugged  him  wildly, 
her  warm  young  arms  about  his  neck. 

"  Of  course  we  will,"  he  reassured  her;  "  and  right 
away,  to-morrow.  You  and  me." 

He  felt  her  lips  against  his,  and  then  more  cautiously 
she  took  up  the  immediate  planning  of  their  purpose.  It 
would  be  ridiculously  easy;  they  would  drive  to  Stanwick 
in  the  buggy. 

"  The  hotels  and  all,"  she  continued  with  shining  eyes; 
"  and  nobody  will  think  it's  queer.  I'll  be  your  daughter, 
like  always." 

Calvin  turned  abruptly  from  her  and  faced  the  valley 
saturated  with  slumberous  sunlight.  Lucy  hesitated  for 
a  moment  and  then  fled  lightly  into  the  house.  After  a 
little  he  heard  her  singing  on  the  upper  floor.  People 
wouldn't  think  it  was  queer  because  she  would  be  his 
daughter,  "  like  always." 

Yet  he  wasn't  old  beyond  hope,  past  love  —  as  strong 
and  nearly  as  springy  as  a  hickory  sapling.  He  had 

[SO] 


LONELY    VALLEYS 

waited  half  his  life  for  this.  Calvin  slowly  smiled  in 
bitterness  and  self -contempt;  a  pretty  figure  for  a  young 
girl  to  admire,  he  thought,  losing  the  sense  of  mere  physi 
cal  fitness.  Anyhow  Lucy  was  supremely  happy  and 
safe,  and  he  had  accomplished  it.  He  was  glad  that  he 
had  been  so  industrious  and  successful.  Lucy  could  have 
almost  anything  she  wanted  —  pretty  clothes  and  rings 
with  real  jewels,  necklaces  hung  with  better  than  Scotch 
pebbles. 

Perhaps  when  she  had  seen  the  world  —  its  bigness  and 
noise  and  confusion  —  after  her  longing  was  answered,  she 
would  turn  back  to  him.  Already  he  was  oppressed  by  a 
feeling  of  strangeness,  of  loss  at  leaving  the  high  valleys  of 
home. 


[SI] 


THE  EGYPTIAN  CHARIOT 


LEMUEL  DORET  walked  slowly  home  from  the 
prayer  meeting  with  his  being  vibrating  to  the 
triumphant  beat  of  the  last  hymn.  It  was  a  good 
hymn,  filled  with  promised  joy  for  every  one  who  con 
quered  sin.  The  long  twilight  of  early  summer  showed 
the  surrounding  fields  still  bright  green,  but  the  more  dis 
tant  hills  were  vague,  the  sky  was  remote  and  faintly  blue, 
and  shadows  thickened  under  the  heavy  maples  that  cov 
ered  the  single  street  of  Nantbrook.  The  small  frame 
dwellings  of  the  village  were  higher  than  the  precarious 
sidewalk;  flights  of  steps  mounted  to  the  narrow  porches; 
and  though  Lemuel  Doret  realized  that  his  neighbors  were 
sitting  outside  he  did  not  look  up,  and  no  voices  called 
down  arresting  his  deliberate  progress. 

An  instant  bitterness,  tightening  his  thin  metallic  lips 
and  narrowing  a  cold  fixed  gaze,  destroyed  the  harmony 
of  the  assured  salvation.  Lemuel  Doret  silently  cursed 
the  pinched  stupidity  of  the  country  clods.  The  slow 
helpless  fools!  If  instead  of  muttering  in  groups  one  of 
the  men  would  face  him  with  the  local  hypocrisy  he'd  sink 
a  heel  in  his  jaw.  The  bitterness  expanded  into  a  hatred 
like  the  gleam  on  a  knife  blade;  his  hands,  spare  and 
hard,  grew  rigid  with  the  desire  to  choke  a  thick  throat. 

Then  the  rage  sank  before  a  swift  self -horror,  an  over 
whelming  conviction  of  his  relapse  into  unutterable  sin. 
He  stopped  and  in  a  spiritual  agony,  forgetful  of  his  sur 
roundings,  half  lifted  quivering  arms  to  the  dim  sky:  "  O 
Christ,  lean  down  from  the  throne  and  hold  me  steady." 

[55] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

He  stood  for  a  moment  while  a  monotonous  chatter  on  a 
porch  above  dropped  to  a  curious  stillness.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  his  whisper  was  heard  and  immediately  an 
swered;  anyhow  peace  slowly  enveloped  him  once  more, 
the  melody  of  hope  was  again  uppermost  in  his  mind.  He 
went  forward,  procuring  a  cigarette  from  a  mended  ragged 
pocket. 

His  house,  reached  by  a  short  steep  path  and  sagging 
steps,  was  dark ;  at  first  he  saw  no  one,  then  the  creak  of  a 
rocking-chair  in  the  open  doorway  indicated  Bella,  his 
wife. 

"  Give  me  a  cigarette,"  she  demanded,  her  penetrating 
voice  dissatisfied. 

"  You  know  I  don't  want  you  to  smoke  anywhere  you 
can  be  seen,"  he  answered.  "  Since  we've  come  here  to 
live  we  have  to  mind  the  customs.  The  women'll  never 
take  to  you  smoking  cigarettes." 

"  Ah,  hell,  what  do  I  care !  We  came  here,  but  it 
ain't  living.  It  makes  me  sick,  and  you  make  me  sick! 
Can't  you  sing  and  pray  in  the  city  as  well  as  among  these 
hicks?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  of  it,"  he  said,  brief  and  somber.  "  And  I 
don't  want  Flavilla  brought  up  with  any  of  the  gang  we 
knew.  Where  is  she  ?  " 

"  I  sent  her  to  bed.  She  fussed  round  till  she  got  me 
nervous." 

"Did  she  feel  good?" 

"  If  she  didn't  a  smack  would  have  cured  her." 

He  passed  Bella,  rocking  sharply,  into  the  dank  interior. 

On  the  right  was  the  bare  room  where  he  had  his  dilap 
idated  barber's  chair  and  shelf  with  a  few  mugs,  brushes 

[56] 


THE   EGYPTIAN    CHARIOT 

and  other  scant  necessities.  There  had  been  no  custom 
ers  to-day  nor  yesterday;  still,  it  was  the  middle  of  the 
week  and  what  trade  there  was  generally  concentrated  on 
Saturday.  Beyond  he  went  upstairs  to  Flavilla's  bed. 
She  was  awake,  twisting  about  in  a  fragmentary  night 
gown,  dark  against  the  disordered  sheet. 

"It's  dreadful  hot,"  she  complained  shortly;  "  my 
head's  hot  too.  The  window  won't  go  up." 

Lemuel  Doret  crossed  the  narrow  bare  floor  and  dragged 
the  sash  open;  then  he  moved  his  daughter  while  he 
smoothed  the  bed  and  freshened  a  harsh  pillow.  She 
whimpered. 

"  You're  too  big  to  cry  without  any  reason,"  he  in 
formed  her,  leaving  to  fetch  a  glass  of  water  from  the  tap 
in  the  kitchen. 

Usually  she  responded  to  his  intimations  of  her  increas 
ing  age  and  wisdom,  but  to-night  she  was  listless.  She 
turned  away  from  him,  her  arms  flung  above  her  head  and 
wispy  hair  veiling  her  damp  cheek. 

"  Keep  still,  can't  you  ?  "  and  he  gathered  her  hair  into 
a  clumsy  plait. 

The  darkness  about  him  seeped  within,  into  his  hope 
and  courage  and  resolution;  all  that  he  had  determined  to 
do  seemed  impossibly  removed.  The  whole  world  re 
sembled  Nantbrook  —  a  place  of  universal  condemnation, 
forgiving  nothing.  He  felt  a  certainty  that  even  the 
few  dollars  he  had  honestly  earned  would  now  be 
stopped. 

The  air  grew  clearer  and  deeper  in  color,  and  stars 
brightened.  Lemuel  Doret  wondered  about  God.  There 
was  no  doubt  of  His  power  and  glory  or  of  the  final  tri- 

[57] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

umph  of  heaven  established  and  earth,  sin,  destroyed. 
His  mind  was  secure  in  these  truths ;  his  comprehension  of 
the  paths  of  wickedness  was  equally  plain ;  it  was  the  ways 
of  the  righteous  that  bewildered  him  —  the  conduct  of  the 
righteous  and,  in  the  face  of  his  supreme  recognition,  the 
extreme  difficulty  of  providing  life  for  Flavilla  —  and 
Bella. 

He  consciously  added  his  wife's  name.  Somehow  his 
daughter  was  the  sole  objective  measure  of  his  determina 
tion  to  build  up,  however  late,  a  home  here  and  in  eternity. 

It  was  not  unreasonable,  in  view  of  the  past,  to  suppose 
that  he  had  no  chance  of  succeeding.  Yet  religion  was 
explicit  upon  that  particular;  it  was  founded  on  the  very 
hopes  of  sinners,  on  redemption.  But  he  could  do  noth 
ing  without  an  opportunity  to  make  the  small  living  they 
required;  if  the  men  of  Nantbrook,  of  the  world,  wouldn't 
come  to  him  to  be  barbered,  and  if  he  had  no  money  to  go 
anywhere  else  to  begin  again,  he  was  helpless.  Every 
thing  was  conspiring  to  thrust  him  back  into  the  city,  of 
which  he  had  confessed  his  fear,  back 

He  rose  and  stood  above  the  child's  thin  exposed  body 
—  suddenly  frozen  into  a  deathlike  sleep  —  chilled  with  a 
vision,  a  premonition,  the  insidious  possibility  of  surren 
der.  He  saw,  too,  that  it  was  a  solitary  struggle;  even 
his  devotion  to  Flavilla,  shut  in  the  single  space  of  his 
own  heart,  helped  to  isolate  him  in  what  resembled  a 
surrounding  blackness  rent  with  blinding  flashes  of 
lightning. 

The  morning  sun  showed  him  spare,  with  a  curious  ap 
pearance  of  being  both  wasted  and  grimly  strong;  he 
moved  with  an  alert,  a  watchful  ease,  catlike  and  silent; 

[58] 


THE    EGYPTIAN    CHARIOT 

and  his  face  was  pallid  with  gray  shadows.  He  stood  in 
trousers  and  undershirt,  suspenders  hanging  down,  before 
the  small  dim  mirror  in  the  room  where  he  had  the  barber 
chair,  pasting  his  hair  down  with  an  odorous  brilliantine. 
This  was  his  intention,  but  he  saw  with  sharp  discomfort 
that  bristling  strands  defied  his  every  effort.  The  hot 
edge  of  anger  cut  at  him,  but,  singing,  he  dissipated  it: 

"  Why  should  I  feel  discouraged? 
Why  should  the  shadows  fall? 
Why  should  my  heart  be  lonely, 
And  long  for  heaven " 

He  broke  off  at  the  thought  of  Flavilla,  still  in  bed,  her 
head,  if  anything,  hotter  than  last  night.  Lemuel 
Doret  wished  again  that  he  had  not  allowed  Bella  to  call 
their  child  by  that  unsanctified  name.  Before  the  birth 
they  had  seen  a  vaudeville,  and  Bella,  fascinated  by  a 
golden-and-white  creature  playing  a  white  accordion  that 
bore  her  name  in  ornamental  letters,  had  insisted  on  calling 
her  daughter,  too,  Flavilla.  In  spite  of  the  hymn,  dejec 
tion  fastened  on  him  as  he  remembered  this  and  a  great 
deal  more  about  his  wife. 

If  she  could  only  be  brought  to  see  the  light  their  mar 
riage  and  life  might  still  be  crowned  with  triumph.  But 
Bella,  pointing  out  the  resulting  poverty  of  his  own  convic 
tion  and  struggle,  said  freely  that  she  had  no  confidence  in 
promises;  she  demanded  fulfillment  now.  She  regarded 
him  as  more  than  a  little  affected  in  the  brain.  Yet  there 
had  been  no  deep  change  in  him  —  from  the  very  first  he 
had  felt  a  growing  uneasiness  at  the  spectacle  of  the  world 

[59] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

and  the  flesh.  The  throb  of  the  Salvation  Army  drum  at 
the  end  of  an  alley,  the  echo  of  the  fervent  exhortations  and 
holy  songs,  had  always  filled  him  with  a  surging  emotion 
like  homesickness. 

Two  impulses,  he  recognized,  held  a  relentless  warfare 
within  him;  he  pictured  them  as  Christ  and  Satan;  but 
the  first  would  overthrow  all  else.  "Glory!"  he  cried 
mechanically  aloud.  He  put  down  the  hairbrush  and  in 
spected  the  razors  on  their  shelf.  The  bright  morning 
light  flashed  along  the  rubbed  fine  blades;  they  were  beau 
tiful,  flawless,  without  a  trace  of  defilement.  He  felt  the 
satin  smoothness  of  the  steel  with  an  actual  thrill  of  pleas 
ure;  his  eyes  narrowed  until  they  were  like  the  glittering 
points  of  knives ;  he  held  the  razor  firmly  and  easily,  with 
a  sinewy  poised  wrist. 

Finally,  his  suspenders  in  position  over  a  collarless 
striped  shirt,  he  moved  out  to  the  bare  sharp  descent  before 
his  house  and  poured  water  onto  the  roots  of  a  struggling 
lilac  bush.  Its  leaves  were  now  coated  with  dust;  but  the 
week  before  it  had  borne  an  actual  cluster  of  scented  blos 
som;  and  he  was  still  in  the  wonder  of  the  lavender  frag 
rance  on  the  meager  starved  stem. 

The  beat  of  hoofs  approached,  and  he  turned,  seeing 
Doctor  Frazee  in  his  yellow  cart. 

"  Oh,  doctor!  "  he  called  instinctively. 

The  other  stopped,  a  man  with  a  lean  face,  heavy  curved 
nose  and  penetrating  gaze  behind  large  spectacles.  He 
was  in  reality  a  veterinary,  but  Lemuel  Doret,  out  of  a  pro 
found  caution,  had  discovered  him  to  be  above  the  narrow 
scope  of  local  prejudice. 

"  I  wish  you'd  look  at  Flavilla,"  Doret  continued. 
[60] 


THE   EGYPTIAN    CHARIOT 

The  doctor  hesitated,  and  then  turned  shortly  in  at  the 
sidewalk.  "  It  will  hurt  no  one  if  I  do  that."  Above 
Flavilla's  flushed  face,  a  tentative  finger  on  her  wrist,  Fra- 
zee's  expression  grew  serious.  "I'll  tell  you  this,"  he  as 
serted;  "  she's  sick.  You  had  better  call  Markley  to-day. 
And  until  he  comes  don't  give  her  any  solids.  You  can 
see  she's  in  a  fever." 

"  Can't  you  tend  her?  I'd  put  more  on  you  than  any 
fresh  young  hospital  stiff." 

"  Certainly  not,"  he  responded. 

When  the  latter  had  gone  Lemuel  Doret  found  his  wife 
in  the  kitchen.  She  wore  a  pale-blue  wrapper  with  a 
soiled  scrap  of  coarse  lace  at  her  full  throat,  her  hair  was 
gathered  into  a  disorderly  knot,  and  already  there  was  a 
dab  of  paint  on  either  cheek.  She  had  been  pretty  when 
he  married  her,  pretty  and  full  of  an  engaging  sparkle,  a 
ready  wit;  but  the  charm  had  gone,  the  wit  had  hardened 
into  a  habit  of  sarcasm.  They  had  been  married  twelve 
years,  and  in  itself,  everything  considered,  that  was  re 
markable  and  held  a  great  deal  in  her  favor.  She  had 
been  faithful.  It  was  only  lately,  in  Nantbrook,  that  her 
dissatisfaction  had  materialized  in  vague  restless  hints. 

"Frazee  says  Flavilla  is  sick,"  he  told  her.  "He 
thinks  we  ought  to  get  Markley." 

She  made  a  gesture  of  skepticism.  "  All  those  doctors 
send  you  to  each  other,"  she  proclaimed.  "  Like  as  not 
he'll  get  half  for  doing  it." 

"  She  don't  look  right." 

Bella's  voice  and  attitude  grew  exasperated.  "  Of 
course  you  know  all  about  children;  you've  been  where 
you  could  study  on  them.  And  of  course  I  have  no  sense; 

[61] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

a  woman's  not  the  person  to  say  when  her  child  is  sick  or 
well.  Have  a  doctor  if  you  can  pay  one,  and  buy  a  lot  of 
medicine  too.  There's  some  calomel  upstairs,  but  that's  no 
good.  I'd  like  to  know  where  you  have  all  the  money! 
God  knows  I  need  a  little,  to  put  inside  me  and  out." 

"  It's  right  scarce,"  he  admitted,  resolutely  ignoring  her 
tone.  "  Perhaps  Flavilla  will  be  better  later  in  the  day; 
I'll  wait." 

He  spoke  without  conviction,  denying  the  impulse  to 
have  her  cared  for  at  once,  in  an  effort  to  content  and 
still  Bella.  However,  he  failed  in  both  of  these  aims. 
Her  voice  swept  into  a  shrill  complaint  and  abuse  of 
Nantbrook  —  a  place,  she  asserted,  of  one  dead  street, 
without  even  a  passing  trolley  car  to  watch.  She  had  no 
intention  of  being  buried  here  for  the  rest  of  her  life. 
Turning  to  a  cigarette  and  yesterday's  paper  she  drooped 
into  a  sulky  shape  of  fat  and  slovenly  blue  wrapper  beside 
the  neglected  dishes  of  their  insufficient  breakfast. 

He  went  through  the  empty  house  to  the  front  again, 
where  at  least  the  sun  was  warm  and  bright.  The  air 
held  a  faint  dry  fragrance  that  came  from  the  haymaking 
of  the  deep  country  in  which  Nantbrook  lay.  Lemuel 
Doret  could  see  the  hotel  at  a  crossing  on  the  left,  a  small 
gray  block  of  stone  with  a  flat  portico,  a  heavy  gilt  beer 
sign  and  whitewashed  sheds  beyond.  The  barkeeper  stood 
at  a  door,  a  huge  girth  circled  by  a  soiled  apron; 
nearer  a  bundle  of  brooms  and  glittering  stacked  paint  cans 
marked  the  local  store.  It  was,  he  was  forced  to  admit, 
far  from  gay;  but  he  found  a  great  contentment  in  the 
sunny  .peace,  in  the  limitless  space  of  the  unenclosed  sky; 
the  air,  the  fields,  the  birds  in  the  trees  were  free. 

[62] 


THE    EGYPTIAN    CHARIOT 

As  he  stood  frowning  in  thought  he  saw  the  figure  of  a 
strange  man  walking  over  the  road ;  Lemuel  knew  that  he 
was  strange  by  the  formality  of  the  clothes.  He  wore  a 
hard  straw  hat,  collar  and  diamond-pinned  tie,  and  a  suit 
with  a  waistcoat.  At  first  Doret's  interest  was  perfunc 
tory,  but  as  the  other  drew  nearer  his  inspection  changed 
to  a  painful  absorption.  Suddenly  his  attitude  grew 
tense;  he  had  the  appearance  of  a  man  gazing  at  an  en 
thralling  but  dangerous  spectacle,  such  —  for  example  — 
as  a  wall  that  might  topple  over,  crushing  anything  hu 
man  within  its  sweep. 

The  object  of  this  scrutiny  had  a  pale  countenance  with 
a  carefully  clipped  mustache,  baggy  eyes  and  a  blue- 
shaved  heavy  jaw.  An  indefinable  suggestion  of  haste  sat 
on  a  progress  not  unduly  hurried.  But  as  he  caught  sight 
of  Lemuel  Doret  he  walked  more  and  more  slowly,  return 
ing  his  fixed  attention.  When  the  two  men  were  opposite 
each  other,  only  a  few  feet  apart,  he  almost  stopped.  For 
a  moment  their  sharpened  visions  met,  parried,  and  then 
the  stranger  moved  on.  He  made  a  few  steps,  hesitated, 
then  directly  returned. 

"  Come  inside,"  he  said  in  a  slightly  hoarse  voice. 

"  It  suits  me  here,"  Doret  replied. 

The  other  regarded  him  steadily.  "  I've  made  no  mis 
take,"  he  asserted.  "  I  could  almost  say  how  long  you 
were  up  for,  and  a  few  other  little  things  too.  I  don't 
know  what  you're  doing  in  this  dump,  but  here  we  both 
are." 

He  waited  for  nothing  more,  ascending  quickly  to  the 
hall.  The  two  made  their  way  into  the  improvised  barber 
shop. 

[63] 


THE   HAPPY    END 

"  You've  got  me  wrong,"  Doret  still  insisted. 

"  Who  is  it,  Lem?  "  Bella  demanded  at  the  door. 

As  she  spoke  an  expression  of  geniality  overspread  her 
face,  daubed  with  paint  and  discontent. 

"  Why,  I'll  tell  you  —  I'm  June  Bowman." 

"  That  don't  mean  anything  to  us,"  Lemuel  continued. 
"  The  best  thing  you  can  do  is  keep  right  on  going." 

"  Not  that  Fourth  Ward  stew?  "  Bella  asked  eagerly. 

He  nodded. 

"  Lem's  kind  of  died  on  his  feet,"  she  explained  in  a 
palpable  excuse  of  her  husband's  ignorance;  "he  don't 
read  the  papers  nor  nothing.  But  of  course  I've  heard 
of  you,  Mr.  Bowman.  We're  glad  to  see  you." 

"  Keep  right  along,"  Lemuel  Doret  repeated.  His  face 
was  dark  and  his  mouth  hardly  more  than  a  pinched  line. 

"  Now,  who  are  you?  "  Bowman  inquired. 

"  I'll  tell  you,"  Bella  put  in,  "  since  his  manners  have 
gone  with  everything  else.  This  is  Snow  Doret.  If  you 
know  the  live  men  that  name  will  be  familiar  to  you." 

"  I  seem  to  remember  it,"  he  admitted. 

"  If  Snow  went  in  the  city  it's  Lemuel  here,"  Doret  told 
him.  His  anger  seethed  like  a  kettle  beginning  to  boil. 

"  Well,  if  Snow  ever  went  I  guess  I'm  in  right.  The 
truth  is  I  got  to  lay  off  for  a  little,  and  this  seems  first-rate. 
I  can  explain  it  in  a  couple  of  words:  Things  went 
bad " 

"  Wasn't  it  the  election?  "  Bella  asked  politely. 

"  In  a  way,"  he  answered  with  a  bow.  "  You're  all 
right.  A  certain  party,  you  see,  was  making  some  funny 
cracks  —  a  reform  dope ;  and  he  got  in  other  certain  par 
ties'  light,  see  ?  Word  was  sent  round,  and  when  a  friend 

[64] 


THE   EGYPTIAN    CHARIOT 

and  me  come  on  him  some  talk  was  passed  and  this  public 
nuisance  got  something.  It  was  all  regular  and  paid 
for " 

"  I  read  about  it,"  Bella  interrupted.  "  He  died  in  the 
ambulance." 

"  Then  I  was  slipped  the  news  that  they  were  going 
to  elect  me  the  pretty  boy,  and  I  had  to  make  a  break. 
Only  temporary,  till  things  are  fixed.  Thus  you  see  me 
scattered  with  hayseed.  I  was  walking  through  for  a  lift 
to  Lancaster,  where  there  are  some  good  fellows ;  but  when 
I  saw  Snow  here  taking  the  air  I  knew  there  was  one 
nearer." 

"  Lemuel;  and  I'm  no  good  fellow." 

"  That's  the  truth,"  his  wife  added  thinly.  "  Here  is 
the  only  one  in  this  house."  She  touched  her  abundant 
self. 

"Then  I  can  put  up?" 

"  No,"  Lemuel  Doret  told  him.  "  This  is  a  house  of 
God's." 

Bella  laughed  in  a  rising  hysterical  key. 

"Listen  to  him,"  she  gasped;  "listen  to  Snow  Doret. 
It's  no  wonder  you  might  have  forgotten  him,"  she  pro 
claimed;  "  he's  been  in  the  pen  for  ten  and  a  half  years 
with  a  bunch  off  for  good  conduct.  But  fifteen  years 
ago  —  say !  He  went  in  for  knifing  a  drug  store  keeper 
who  held  out  on  a  *  coke  '  deal.  If  this  here's  a  house  of 
God's  I'd  like  to  know  what  he  called  the  one  he  had 
then.  I  couldn't  tell  you  half  of  what  went  on,  not  half, 
with  fixing  drinks  and  frame-ups  and  skirts.  Why,  he 
run  a  hop  joint  with  the  Chinese  and  took  a  noseful  of 
snow  at  every  other  breath.  That  was  after  his  gambling 

[65] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

room  broke  up  —  it  got  too  raw  even  for  the  police.  It 
was  brandy  with  him,  too,  and  there  ain't  a  gutter  in  his 
district  he  didn't  lay  in.  The  drug  store  man  wasn't  the 
first  he  cut  neither." 

She  stopped  from  sheer  lack  of  breath. 

Curiously  all  that  filled  Lemuel  Doret's  mind  was  the 
thought  of  the  glory  of  God.  Everything  Bella  said  was 
true;  but  in  the  might  of  the  Savior  it  was  less  than  noth 
ing.  He  had  descended  into  the  pit  and  brought  him, 
Snow,  up,  filling  his  ears  with  the  sweet  hymns  of  redemp 
tion,  the  promise  of  Paradise  for  the  thieves  and  murderers 
who  acknowledged  His  splendor  and  fought  His  fight. 
This  marvelous  charity,  the  cleansing  hope  for  his  black 
ened  soul,  swept  over  him  in  a  warm  rush  of  humble  praise 
and  unutterable  gratitude.  Nothing  of  the  Lord's  was 
lost:  "  His  eye  is  on  the  sparrow." 

"  Certainly,  lay  off  your  coat,"  Bella  was  urging;  "  it's 
fierce  hot.  Lem  can  rush  a  can  of  beer  from  the  hotel. 
Even  he  wouldn't  go  to  turn  out  one  of  the  crowd  in  a 
hard  fix.  I'm  awful  glad  you  saw  him." 

With  June  Bowman  in  his  house,  engaged  in  verbal 
agreements  with  Bella  and  spreading  comfortably  on  a 
chair,  Lemuel  was  powerless.  All  his  instinct  pressed  him 
to  send  the  other  on,  to  refuse  —  in  the  commonest  self- 
preservation  —  shelter.  But  both  the  laws  of  his  old  life 
and  the  commands  of  the  new  were  against  this  act  of 
simple  precaution.  Bowman  eyed  him  with  a  shrewd  ap 
praisement. 

"  A  clever  fellow,"  he  said,  nodding;  "  admire  you  for 
coming  out  here  for  a  while.  Well,  how  about  the  suds  ?  " 

[66] 


THE    EGYPTIAN    CHARIOT 

He  produced  a  thick  roll  of  yellow-backed  currency  and 
detached  a  small  bill.  "  I'll  finance  this  campaign." 

Lemuel  Doret  was  confused  by  the  rapidity  with  which 
the  discredited  past  was  re-created  by  Bowman's  mere  pres 
ence.  He  was  at  the  point  of  refusing  to  fetch  the  beer 
when  he  saw  that  there  was  no  explanation  possible;  they 
would  regard  him  as  merely  crabbed,  and  Bella  would  in 
dulge  her  habit  of  shrill  abuse.  It  wasn't  the  drink  itself 
that  disturbed  him  but  the  old  position  of  "  rushing  the 
can  " —  a  symbol  of  so  much  that  he  had  left  forever. 
Forever;  he  repeated  the  word  with  a  silent  bitter  force. 
The  feel  of  the  kettle  in  his  hand,  the  thin  odor  of  the  beer 
and  slopping  foam,  seemed  to  him  evidences  of  acute  de 
generation;  he  was  oppressed  by  a  mounting  dejection. 
God  seemed  very  far  away. 

His  wife  was  talking  while  Bowman  listened  with  an  air 
of  sympathetic  wisdom. 

"  It  wasn't  so  bad  then,"  she  said;  "  I  was  kind  of  glad 
to  get  away,  and  Lem  was  certain  everything  would  open 
right  out.  But  he's  awful  hard  to  do  with;  he  wouldn't 
take  a  dollar  from  parties  who  had  every  right  to  stake 
him  good,  and  borrowed  five  from  no  more  than  a 
stranger  to  buy  that  secondhand  barber  chair.  What  he 
needed  was  chloroform  to  separate  these  farmers  from 
their  dimes  and  whiskers."  Bowman  laughed  loudly,  and 
a  corresponding  color  invaded  Bella.  "  Of  course  no 
one  knew  Lem  had  done  time,  then.  They  wouldn't  have 
either,  but  for  the  Law  and  Order.  Oh,  dear  me,  no, 
your  child  ain't  none  of  your  own;  they  lend  it  to  you 
like  and  then  sneak  up  whenever  the  idea  takes  them,  to 

[67] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

see  if  it's  getting  a  Turkish  bath.  I  guess  the  people  on 
the  street  wondered  who  was  our  swell  automobile  friend 
till  they  found  out." 

"  I  suppose,"  Bowman  put  in,  "  they  all  came  round  and 
offered  you  the  helping  hand,  wanted  to  see  you  happy  and 
successful." 

She  laughed.  "Them?"  she  demanded.  "Them? 
The  man  that  owns  this  house  said  that  if  he'd  known, 
Lem  would  never  had  it;  they  don't  want  convicts  in  this 
town.  This  is  a  moral  burg.  That's  more  than  the 
women  said  to  me  though  —  the  starved  buzzards ;  if 
they've  spoke  a  word  to  me  since  I  never  heard  it."  Her 
voice  rose  in  sharp  mimicry:  "  *  You,  Katie,  come  right 

up  on  the  porch,  child!  Don't  you  know !  '  See, 

I'm  going  by." 

"  I  could  have  warned  you  of  all  that,"  June  Bowman 
asserted;  "  for  the  reason  they're  narrow,  don't  know  any 
thing  about  living  or  affairs;  hypocritical  too;  long  on 
churchgoing " 

Doret  regarded  him  solemnly.  How  blind  he  was,  a 
mound  of  corruptible  flesh!  He  put  the  beer  down  and 
turned  abruptly  away,  going  up  to  Fla villa.  She  seemed 
better;  her  face  was  white  but  most  of  the  fever  had  gone. 
He  listened  to  her  harsh  breathing  with  the  conviction 
that  she  had  caught  a  cold ;  and  immediately  after  he  was 
back  from  the  store  with  a  bottle  of  cherry  pectoral.  She 
liked  the  sweet  taste  of  the  thick  bright-pink  sirup  and 
was  soon  quiet.  Lemuel  sniffed  the  mouth  of  the  bottle 
suspiciously.  It  was  doped,  he  finally  decided,  but  not 
enough  to  hurt  her;  tasting  it,  a  momentary  desire  for 
stinging  liquor  ran  like  fire  through  his  nerves.  He 

[68] 


THE    EGYPTIAN    CHARIOT 

laughed  at  it,  crushing  and  throwing  aside  the  longing 
with  a  sense  of  contempt  and  triumph. 

He  could  hear  occasionally  Bowman's  smooth  periods 
and  his  wife's  eager  enjoyment  of  the  discourse.  His 
sense  of  worldly  loneliness  deepened;  Flavilla  seemed  far 
away.  All  life  was  inexplicable  —  yes,  and  profitless, 
ending  in  weariness  and  death.  The  hunger  for  perfec 
tion,  for  God,  that  had  been  a  constant  part  of  his  exist 
ence,  the  longing  for  peace  and  security,  were  almost  un 
bearable.  He  had  had  a  long  struggle;  the  devil  was 
deeply  rooted  in  him.  He  could  laugh  at  the  broken 
tyranny  of  drugs  and  drink,  but  the  passion  for  fine  steel 
cutting  edges  was  different,  and  twisted  into  every  fiber. 
The  rage  that  even  yet  threatened  to  flood  him,  sweeping 
away  his  painfully  erected  integrity,  was  different  too. 
These  things  had  made  him  a  murderer. 

".  .  .  not  the  righteous,   but  sinners  to  repentance." 

He  had  a  sudden  muddled  vision  of  another  world, 
a  world  where  sturdy  men  gave  him  their  hands  and 
in  reality  fulfilled  June  Bowman's  mocking  words.  There 
the  houses,  the  streets  of  his  youth  would  have  been  im 
possible.  Ah,  he  was  thinking  of  another  kind  of  heaven; 
it  was  a  hop  dream. 

There  was  a  stir  below  and  he  heard  the  clatter  of 
plates.  Dinner  was  in  preparation.  "Lem!"  his  wife 
called.  "  Mr.  Bowman  wants  you  to  go  to  the  butcher's." 

"  Call  me  June,"  he  put  in;  adding:  "  Sure,  Lem;  the 
butcher's;  we  want  a  tenderloin,  cut  thick.  You  can't  get 
any  pep  on  greens;  we  ain't  cattle." 

Doret  felt  that  he  would  have  been  infinitely  happier 
with  his  own  thin  fare.  In  a  manner  he  got  comfort  from 

[69] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

a  pinch  of  hunger;  somehow  the  physical  deprivation  gave 
him  a  sense  of  purification.  The  other  man,  purple  with 
the  meat  and  beer,  shook  out  a  cigarette  from  a  paper 
pack. 

"  Always  smoke  caporal  halves,"  he  proclaimed. 

The  blue  vapor  from  the  three  burning  cigarettes  rose 
and  mingled.  Bella  was  quiet,  reflective;  Bowman  sat 
with  half-shut  speculative  eyes;  Lemuel  Doret  was  again 
lost  in  visions. 

"  How  long  are  you  taking  the  milk  cure?  "  Bowman 
asked. 

Lemuel  made  no  reply,  but  his  wife  smiled  bitterly. 

"  I  had  an  idea,"  the  other  continued;  "  but  it's  a  little 
soon  to  spring  anything.  And  I  don't  know  but  you  might 
prefer  it  here." 

"  Try  me,"  Bella  proclaimed;  "  that's  all  I  want!  " 

Doret  still  said  nothing  of  his  determination  to  conquer 
life  in  Nantbrook.  A  swift  impulse  seized  him  to  take 
June  Bowman  by  the  collar  and  fling  him  into  the  street. 

"  Just  try  me!  "  Bella  repeated. 

He  would  be  helpless  in  his,  Doret's,  hands.  It  was 
hard  enough  to  be  upright  without  an  insinuating  crook 
in  the  place.  There  was  a  heavy  movement  of  feet  in  the 
front  of  the  house,  and  he  went  out  to  meet  a  customer. 

Sliding  the  sensitive  razor  blade  over  a  young  tanned 
cheek  he  pondered  moodily  on  the  undesirable  fact  of 
June  Bowman. 

Returning  from  this  exercise  of  his  trade  he  saw  Bella 
descending  the  stair  with  a  plate. 

"  With  all  your  going  on  over  Flavilla,"  she  told  him, 
"  it  never  came  to  you  that  she'd  like  a  piece  of  steak." 

[70] 


THE    EGYPTIAN    CHARIOT 

"  But  Doctor  Frazee  told  us  nothing  solid.  I  took  her 
up  two  eggs  in  the  morning." 

"  Yes,  and  you'd  had  two  dollars  to  pay  as  well  if  I 
hadn't  showed  you  different.  Flavilla's  probably  as  well 
as  any  of  us.  I  wish  you  would  fix  yourself  a  little,  Lem. 
I'm  tired  of  having  you  about  the  house  in  your  sus 
penders." 

He  viewed  her  silently.  Bella  had  on  a  dress  he  had 
never  seen  before,  thin  red-spotted  yellow  silk  drawn 
tightly  over  a  pronounced  figure,  a  red  girdle,  and  high- 
heeled  patent-leather  slippers. 

"  If  you're  going  to  look  like  this,"  he  admitted,  "  I'll 
have  to  get  a  move  on." 

When  they  were  first  in  Nantbrook  she  had  worn  a 
denim  apron,  and  that,  too,  with  all  the  other  differences 
had  seemed  to  express  their  new  life;  but  now  in  yellow 
silk  she  was  back  in  the  old.  Lemuel  Doret  studied  his 
wife  with  secret  doubt;  more  than  the  dress  had  changed. 
She  seemed  younger;  rather  she  was  adopting  a  younger 
manner.  In  the  presence  of  June  Bowman  it  intensi 
fied. 

"  That  idea  I  spoke  about,"  the  latter  advanced:  "  I've 
been  sizing  you  up>  the  both  of  you,  and  you  look  good. 
Well,  I've  got  hold  of  a  concession  on  the  Atlantic  Board 
walk  and  the  necessary  cash  is  in  sight."  He  turned  to 
Lemuel.  "  How  would  you  like  to  run  a  bowling  game? 
It's  on  the  square  and  would  give  you  a  lead  into  some 
thing  bigger.  You're  wise;  why,  you  might  turn  into  a 
shore  magnate,  with  Bella  here  dressed  up  in  stones." 

Doret  shook  his  head.  "  Treasure  on  earth,"  he 
thought;  "moth  and  rust."  But  it  would  be  hopeless  to 

[71] 


THE   HAPPY    END 

attempt  any  explanation.     "  No,"  he  said;  "  we'll  play  it 
out  here." 

"  We  will  ?  "  Bella  echoed  him.  "  Indeed !  We  will  ?  " 
Now  the  emphasis  was  sharply  on  the  first  word.  "  What's 
going  to  keep  me?  " 

"  You're  my  wife,"  he  replied  simply;  "  we  have  a 
child." 

"  Times  have  changed,  Snow,"  Bowman  interrupted. 
"  You  ought  to  read  the  papers.  This  is  ladies'  day. 
The  old  harem  stuff  don't  go  no  longer.  They  are  eman 
cipated." 

"  Lemuel,"  Doret  insisted,  a  narrowed  hard  gaze  on  the 
other  man;  "Lemuel  Doret." 

"He  thinks  nobody'll  remember,"  his  wife  explained. 
"  Lem's  redeemed." 

"  Your  name's  what  you  say,"  Bowman  agreed,  "  but 
remember  this  —  you  can't  throw  any  scare  into  me.  I'm 
no  Fauntleroy,  neither.  Behave." 

The  anger  seethed  again  beneath  Lemuel's  restraint. 
It  began  to  be  particular,  personal,  focused  on  Bowman; 
and  joined  to  it  was  a  petty  dislike  for  the  details  of  the 
man's  appearance,  the  jaunty  bearing  and  conspicuous 
necktie,  the  gloss  of  youth  over  the  unmistakable  signs  of 
degeneration,  the  fatty  pouches  of  his  eyes  and  loose  throat. 

"  I  wouldn't  bother  with  scaring  you,"  he  told  him. 
"  Why  should  I  ?  You've  got  no  kick.  I  took  you  in, 
didn't  I?  And  all  I  said  was  my  name.  Snow  Doret's 
dead;  he  died  in  prison;  and  this  Lemuel's  all  differ 
ent " 

"  I've  heard  about  that  too,"  Bowman  returned;  "but 
somehow  I  don't  take  stock  in  these  miracles." 

[72] 


THE   EGYPTIAN    CHARIOT 

"  If  you  ever  see  me  .looking  like  I  might  be  Snow,  go 
quiet,"  Lemuel  advised.  "  That's  all." 

With  clenched  hands  he  abruptly  departed.  The  cords 
of  his  neck  were  swollen  and  rigid;  there  was  a  haze  be 
fore  his  eyes.  He  went  up  to  the  refuge  of  his  daughter's 
room.  She  was  lying  still,  breathing  thickly,  with  a  fin 
ger  print  of  scarlet  on  each  cheek. 

She  was  so  thin,  so  wasted,  the  bed  and  room  so  stripped 
of  every  comfort,  that  he  dropped  forward  on  his  knees, 
his  arms  outflung  across  her  body  in  an  inarticulate  prayer 
for  faith,  for  strength  and  patience. 

It  was  not  much  he  wanted  —  only  food  for  one  child 
and  help  for  a  woman,  and  a  grip  on  the  devil  tearing  at 
him  in  the  form  of  hatred. 

He  got  only  a  temporary  relief,  for  when  he  went  down 
Bella  and  June  Bowman  were  whispering  together;  he 
passed  the  door  with  his  silent  tread  and  saw  their  heads 
close.  Bella  was  actually  pretty. 

An  astonishing  possibility  occurred  to  him  —  perhaps 
Bella  would  go  away  with  Bowman.  An  unbidden  deep 
relief  at  such  a  prospect  invaded  him;  how  happy  he 
could  be  with  Flavilla.  They  would  get  a  smaller  house, 
which  Flavilla  would  soon  learn  to  keep  for  him;  they 
would  go  to  church  and  prayer  meeting  together,  her  so 
prano  voice  and  his  bass  joined  in  the  praise  of  the  Lord, 
of  the  Almighty  who  raised  the  dead  and  his  Son,  who 
took  the  thief  to  glory. 

This  speculation  was  overcome  by  a  troubled  mind; 
both  his  innate  pride  in  his  wife  as  an  institution  of  his 
honor,  the  feeling  that  he  would  uphold  it  at  any  cost,  and 
his  Christianity  interrupted  the  vision  of  release.  He 

[73] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

must  not  let  her  stumble,  and  he  would  see  that  June 
Bowman  didn't  interfere  in  his  home.  More  beer  made 
its  appearance,  and  the  other  man  grew  louder,  boastful. 
He  exhibited  the  roll  of  money  —  that  was  nothing,  four 
times  that  much  could  be  had  from  the  same  source.  He 
was  a  spender,  too,  and  treated  all  his  friends  liberally. 
Lemuel  was  to  see  if  there  was  any  wine  in  the  damned 
jumping-off  place;  and  when  would  they  all  go  to  Atlan 
tic? 

"  Never,"  Doret  repeated. 

Bowman  laughed  skeptically. 

The  rage  stirred  and  increased,  blinding  Lemuel  Doret's 
heart,  stinging  his  eyes.  Bella,  watching  him,  became 
quieter,  and  she  gave  June  —  she  called  him  June  —  a 
warning  pressure  of  her  fingers.  Her  husband  saw  it 
with  indifference;  everything  small  was  lost  in  the  hot 
tide  enveloping  him.  His  hands  twitched,  but  there  was 
no  other  outward  sign  of  his  tumult.  He  smoked  his 
cigarettes  with  extreme  deliberation. 

It  was  evening  again,  and  they  were  sitting  on  the  nar 
row  porch.  The  west  was  a  serene  lake  of  fading  light 
against  which  the  trees  made  dark  blots  of  foliage.  Nant- 
brook  seemed  unreal,  a  place  of  thin  shadow,  the  future 
unsubstantial  as  well;  only  the  past  was  actual  in  Lemuel 
Doret's  mind  —  the  gray  cold  prison,  the  city  at  night, 
locked  rooms  filled  with  smoke  and  lurid  lights,  ava 
ricious  voices  in  the  mechanical  sentences  of  gambling, 
agonized  tones  begging  for  a  shot,  just  a  shot,  of  an 
addicted  drug,  a  girl  crying. 

He  tried  to  sing  a  measure  of  praise  beneath  his  breath 
but  the  tune  and  words  evaded  him.     He  glanced  furtivel} 

[74] 


THE    EGYPTIAN    CHARIOT 

at  Bowman's  complacent  bulk,  the  flushed  face  turned 
fatuously  to  Bella.  Under  the  other's  left  arm  his  coat 
was  drawn  smoothly  on  a  cushion  of  fat. 

Later  Lemuel  stopped  at  Flavilla's  bed,  and  though 
she  was  composed  he  was  vaguely  alarmed  at  what  seemed 
to  him  an  unreal  rigidity.  She  was  not  asleep,  but  sunk 
in  a  stupor  with  a  glimmer  of  vision  and  an  elusive  pulse. 
He  should  not  have  listened  to  Bella  but  had  a  doctor  as 
Frazee  had  advised.  It  appeared  now  that  —  with  all 
Flavilla  held  for  him  —  he  had  been  strangely  neglectful. 
At  the  same  time  he  was  conscious  of  the  steady  increase 
of  his  hatred  for  Bowman.  This  was  natural,  he  told 
himself;  Bowman  in  a  way  was  the  past  —  all  that  he, 
Doret,  had  put  out  of  his  life.  At  least  he  had  believed 
that  accomplished,  yet  here  it  was  back  again,  alive  and 
threatening;  drinking  beer  in  his  rooms,  whispering  to  his 
wife,  putting  the  thought  of  Flavilla  from  his  head. 

In  the  morning  even  Bella  admitted  that  Flavilla  might 
be  sick  and  a  doctor  necessary.  He  took  one  look  at  his 
daughter's  burning  face,  heard  the  shrill  labor  of  her 
breathing,  and  hurried  downstairs  with  a  set  face.  He 
was  standing  with  Bella  in  the  hall  when  June  Bowman 
descended. 

"  Flavilla  ain't  right,"  she  told  him. 

The  latter  promptly  exhibited  the  wad  of  money. 
"  Whatever  you  need,"  he  said. 

"  Put  it  away,"  Lemuel  replied  shortly.  "  I  don't  want 
any  of  that  for  Flavilla." 

Bowman  studied  him.  Doret  made  no  effort  to  mask 
his  bitterness,  and  the  other  whistled  faintly.  Bella 
laughed,  turning  from  her  husband. 

[75] 


THE   HAPPY    END 

"He's  cracked,"  she  declared;  "you'll  get  no  decency 
off  him.  A  body  would  think  I  had  been  in  jail  and  him 
looking  out  for  her  all  those  ten  years  and  more.  I  can 
say  thank  you,  though;  we'll  need  your  help,  and  glad." 

"  Put  it  away,"  Lemuel  Doret  repeated.  He  was  more 
than  ever  catlike,  alert,  bent  slightly  forward  with  tense 
fingers. 

Bowman  was  unperturbed.  "  I  told  you  about  this  flash 
stuff,"  he  observed.  "  Nobody's  forcing  money  on  you. 
Get  the  bend  out  of  you  and  give  me  a  shave.  That'll 
start  you  on  the  pills." 

Lemuel  Doret  mechanically  followed  him  into  the  rude 
barber  shop;  he  was  fascinated  by  the  idea  of  laying 
the  razor  across  Bowman's  throat.  The  latter  extended 
himself  in  the  chair  and  Doret  slowly,  thoroughly,  covered 
his  lower  face  with  lather,  through  which  the  blade  drew 
with  a  clean  smooth  rip.  A  fever  burned  in  the  standing 
man's  brain,  he  fought  constantly  against  a  stiffening  of 
his  employed  fingers  —  a  swift  turn,  a  cutting  twist. 
Subconsciously  he  called  noiselessly  upon  the  God  that 
had  sustained  him  and,  divided  between  apprehension 
and  the  increasing  lust  to  kill,  his  lips  held  the  form  in 
which  they  had  pronounced  that  impressive  name.  He 
had  the  sensation  of  battling  against  a  terrific  wind,  a  re 
morseless  force  beating  him  to  submission.  His  body 
ached  from  the  violence  of  the  struggle  to  keep  his  hand 
steadily,  evenly,  busied,  following  in  a  delicate  sweep  the 
cords  of  June  Bowman's  neck,  the  jugulars. 

The  other  looked  up  at  him  and  grinned  confidently. 
"  Little  children,"  he  said,  "  love  one  another." 

Lemuel  stopped,  the  razor  suspended  in  air;  there  was  a 
[76] 


THE    EGYPTIAN   CHARIOT 

din  in  his  ears,  his  vision  blurred,  his  grip  tightened  on 
the  bone  handle.  A  sweat  started  out  on  his  brow  and 
he  found  himself  dabbing  June  Bowman's  face  with  a  wet 
cold  towel. 

"  Witch  hazel?  "  he  asked  mechanically. 

Suddenly  he  was  so  tired  that  his  legs  seemed  incapable 
of  support.  He  wiped  the  razor  blade  and  put  it  away 
with  a  lax  nerveless  hand.  He  realized  that  he  had  been 
again  at  the  point  of  murder.  He  had  been  saved  by  the 
narrowest  margin  in  the  world.  For  a  moment  the  fact 
that  he  had  been  saved  absorbed  him,  and  then  the  immi 
nent  danger  of  his  position,  his  weakness,  filled  him  with 
the  sense  of  failure,  a  heavy  feeling  of  hopelessness.  His 
prayers  and  singing,  his  plans  for  redemption,  for  a  godly 
life,  had  threatened  to  end  at  the  first  assault  of  evil. 

He  temporarily  overcame  his  dejection  at  the  memory  of 
Flavilla.  Doctor  Markley  lived  in  a  larger  town  than 
Nantbrook,  ai  dozen  miles  beyond  the  fields  and  green 
hills,  and  he  must  get  him  by  telephone.  Then  there  was 
the  problem  of  payment.  The  doctor,  he  knew,  would  ex 
pect  his  fee,  two  dollars,  immediately  from  such  an  appli 
cant  as  himself;  and  he  had  less  than  a  dollar.  He  ex 
plained  something  of  this  over  the  wire,  adding  that  if 
Markley  would  see  Flavilla  at  the  end  of  the  day  the 
money  would  be  forthcoming.  That,  the  crisp,  disem 
bodied  tone  replied,  was  impossible;  he  must  call  in  the 
middle  of  the  morning,  but  no  difficulty  would  be  made 
about  his  bill;  Doret  could  send  the  amount  to  him 
promptly. 

He  hurried  back  to  the  house  with  this  information,  and 
found  Bella  seated  in  the  kitchen,  the  inevitable  cigarette 

[77] 


THE   HAPPY    END 

throwing  up  its  ribbon  of  smoke  from  her  fingers,  and 
June  Bowman  at  her  shoulder.  Lemuel  ignored  the  latter. 

"  The  doctor'll  be  here  at  about  eleven,"  he  announced. 
"  Mind  you  listen  to  all  he  says  and  get  Flavilla  into  a 
clean  nightgown  and  sheets." 

"  What's  the  matter  with  your  tending  to  her?  "  Bella 
demanded. 

"  I  won't  be  here;  not  till  night.  I'm  going  to  put  up 
hay  with  one  of  the  farmers.  I  hear  they're  in  a  hurry 
and  offering  good  money." 

Bella's  expression  was  strange.  She  laughed  in  a 
forced  way. 

"  We  got  to  hand  it  to  you,"  Bowman  admitted  genially; 
"  you're  there.  I  guess  I'd  starve  before  ever  it  would 
come  to  me  to  fork  hay." 

Lemuel's  wife  added  nothing;  her  lips  twisted  into  a 
fixed  smile  at  once  defiant  and  almost  tremulous.  Well, 
he  was  late  now;  he  couldn't  linger  to  inquire  into  Bella's 
moods.  Yet  at  the  door  he  hesitated  again  to  impress  on 
her  the  importance  of  attending  the  doctor's  every  word. 

It  seemed  to  him  an  hour  later  that  he  was  burning  up 
in  a  dry  intolerable  haze  of  sun  and  hay.  He  awkwardly 
balanced  heavy  ragged  forkfuls,  heaving  them  onto  the 
mounting  stack  of  the  wagon  in  a  paste  of  sweat  and  dust. 
His  eyes  were  filmed  and  his  throat  dry.  He  struggled  on 
in  the  soft  unaccustomed  tyranny  of  the  grass,  the  glare  of 
sun,  with  his  mind  set  on  the  close  of  day.  He  thought  of 
cool  shadows,  of  city  streets  wet  at  night,  and  a  swift 
plunge  into  a  river  where  it  swept  about  the  thrust  of  a 
wharf.  He  wondered  what  Doctor  Markley  would  say 
about  Flavilla;  probably  the  child  wasn't  seriously  sick. 

[78] 


THE   EGYPTIAN    CHARIOT 

The  day  drew  apparently  into  a  tormenting  eternity;  the 
physical  effort  he  welcomed;  it  seemed  to  exhaust  that 
devil  in  him  which  had  so  nearly  betrayed  and  ruined  him 
forever  in  the  morning;  but  the  shifting  slippery  hay,  the 
fiery  dust,  the  incandescent  blaze  created  an  inferno  in  the 
midst  of  which  his  mind  whirled  with  monotonous  giddy 
images  and  half-meaningless  phrases  spoken  and  re-spoken. 

Yet  the  sun  was  not,  as  he  had  begun  to  suppose,  still 
in  the  sky;  it  sank  toward  the  horizon,  the  violet  shadows 
slipped  out  from  the  western  hills,  and  Lemuel  finished 
his  toil  in  a  swimming  gold  mist.  It  was  two  miles  to 
Nantbrook,  and  disregarding  his  aching  muscles  he  hur 
ried  over  the  gray  undulating  road.  The  people  of  the 
village  were  gathered  on  their  commanding  porches,  the 
barkeeper  at  the  hotel  bulked  in  his  doorway.  The  lower 
part  of  Lemuel's  own  house  was  closed;  no  one  appeared 
as  he  mounted  the  insecure  steps. 

"  Bella !  "  he  cried  in  an  overwhelming  anxiety  before 
he  reached  the  hall. 

There  was  no  reply.  He  paused  inside  and  called 
again.  His  voice  echoed  about  the  bare  walls;  he  heard 
a  dripping  from  the  kitchen  sink;  nothing  more. 

"I'd  better  go  up,"  he  said  aloud  with  a  curious  tight 
ening  of  his  throat.  He  progressed  evenly  up  the  stairs; 
suddenly  a  great  weight  seemed  to  bow  his  shoulders;  the 
illusion  was  so  vivid  that  he  actually  staggered;  he  was 
incapable  of  breaking  from  his  measured  progress.  He 
turned  directly  into  Flavilla's  room.  She  was  there  —  he 
saw  her  at  once.  But  Bella  hadn't  put  a  fresh  nightgown 
on  her,  and  the  sheets  were  disordered  and  unchanged. 

Lemuel  took  a  step  forward;  then  he  stopped.  "The 
[79] 


THE   HAPPY    END 

fever's  gone/'  he  vainly  told  the  dread  freezing  about  his 
heart  at  a  stilled  white  face. 

"  Yes,"  he  repeated  with  numb  lips;  "  it's  gone.". 

He  approached  the  bed  and  standing  over  it  and  the 
meager  body  he  cursed  softly  and  wonderingly.  The  light 
was  failing  and  it  veiled  the  sharp  lines  of  the  dead  child's 
countenance.  For  a  moment  his  gaze  strayed  about  the 
room  and  he  felt  a  swift  sorrow  at  its  ugliness.  He  had 
wanted  pretty  things,  pictures  and  a  bright  carpet  and 
ribbons,  for  Flavilla.  Then  he  was  conscious  of  a  tearing 
rage,  but  now  he  was  unmindful  of  it,  impervious  to  its 
assault  in  the  fixed  necessity  of  the  present. 

Later 

He  was  sitting  again  on  his  porch,  after  the  momentary 
morbid  stir  of  curiosity  and  small  funeral,  when  the  un 
restrained  sweep  of  his  own  emotion  overcame  him.  His 
appearance  had  not  changed;  it  was  impossible  for  his 
expression  to  become  bleaker;  but  there  was  a  tremendous 
change  within.  Yet  it  was  not  strange;  rather  he  had  the 
sensation  of  returning  to  an  old  familiar  condition.  There 
he  was  at  ease;  he  moved  swiftly,  surely  forward  in  the 
realization  of  what  lay  ahead. 

Bella  and  June  Bowman  had  left  the  house  almost  di 
rectly  after  him,  and  Markley,  rinding  it  empty,  with  no 
response  to  his  repeated  knocking,  had  turned  away,  being 
as  usual  both  impatient  and  hurried.  Yes,  Bella  had 
gone  and  left  Flavilla  without  even  a  glass  of  water.  But 
Bella  didn't  matter.  He  couldn't  understand  this  —  ex 
cept  where  he  saw  at  last  that  she  never  had  mattered; 
yet  it  was  so.  June  Bowman  was  different. 

There  was  no  rush  about  the  latter  —  to-morrow,  next 
[80] 


THE   EGYPTIAN   CHARIOT 

week  would  do  equally.  There  was  no  doubt  either. 
Lemuel  Doret  gave  a  passing  thought,  like  a  half-contemp 
tuous  gesture  of  final  dismissal,  to  so  much  that  had  lately 
occupied  him.  The  shadow  of  a  smile  disfigured  his  me 
tallic  lips. 

The  following  noon  he  shut  the  door  of  his  house  with 
a  sharp  impact  and  made  his  way  over  the  single  street  of 
Nantbrook  toward  the  city.  His  fear  of  it  had  vanished; 
and  when  he  reached  the  steel-bound  towering  masonry, 
the  pouring  crowds,  he  moved  directly  to  a  theater  from 
which  an  audience  composed  entirely  of  men  was  passing 
out  by  the  posters  of  a  hectic  burlesque. 

"  Clegett?  "  he  asked  at  the  grille  of  the  box  office. 

A  small  man  with  a  tilted  black  derby  came  from  the 
darkened  auditorium. 

"  Where  have  you  been  ?  "  he  demanded  as  he  caught 
sight  of  Lemuel  Doret.  "  I  asked  two  or  three  but  you 
might  have  been  dead  for  all  of  them." 

"  That's  just  about  what  I  have,"  Doret  answered. 
"  Mr.  Clegett,  I'd  like  a  little  money." 

"How  little?" 

"  A  hundred  would  be  plenty." 

The  other  without  hesitation  produced  a  fold  of  cur 
rency,  from  which  he  transferred  an  amount  to  Lemuel 
Doret.  It  went  into  his  pocket  without  a  glance.  He 
hesitated  a  moment,  then  added:  "  This  will  be  all." 

Clegett  nodded.  "  It  might,  and  it  might  not,"  he  as 
serted;  "  but  you  can't  jam  me.  You're  welcome  to  that, 
anyhow.  It  was  coming  to  you.  I  wondered  when  you'd 
be  round." 

It  was  not  far  from  the  theater  to  a  glittering  hardware 
[81] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

store,  a  place  that  specialized  in  sporting  goods.  There 
were  cases  of  fishing  reels,  brilliant  tied  flies  and  var 
nished,  gayly  wrapped  cane  rods,  gaffs  and  coiled  wire 
leaders,  and  an  impressive  assortment  of  modern  pistols, 
rifles  and  shotguns. 

"  Something  small  and  neat,"  Doret  told  the  man  in 
charge  of  the  weapons. 

He  examined  a  compact  automatic  pistol,  a  blunted 
shape  no  larger  than  his  palm.  It  was  a  beautiful  mecha 
nism,  and  as  with  his  silken  razors,  merely  to  hold  it,  to 
test  the  smooth  action,  gave  him  a  sense  of  pleasure. 

Later,  seated  in  a  quiet  cafe,  an  adjunct  of  the  saloon 
below,  he  could  not  resist  the  temptation  of  taking  the 
pistol  in  its  rubber  holster  from  his  pocket,  merely  to 
finger  the  delicate  trigger.  There  was  no  hurry.  He 
knew  his  world  thoroughly:  it  was  a  small  land  in  which 
the  inhabitants  had  constant  knowledge  of  each  other.  A 
question  in  the  right  place  would  bring  all  the  informa 
tion  he  needed.  Lemuel  was  absolutely  composed,  actu 
ally  he  was  a  little  sleepy;  longing  and  inner  strife,  dreams, 
were  at  an  end;  only  an  old  familiar  state,  a  thoroughly 
comprehensible  purpose  remained. 

A  girl  —  she  could  have  been  no  more  than  fourteen  — 
was  hurriedly  slipping  a  paper  of  white  crystalline  powder 
into  a  glass  of  sarsaparilla.  She  smiled  at  him  as  she  saw 
his  indifferent  interrogation. 

"  It's  better  rolled  with  a  pencil  first,"  he  said,  and  then 
returned  to  the  contemplation  of  his  own  affair. 

The  result  of  this  was  that,  soon  after,  he  was  seated 
in  the  smoking  car  of  an  electric  train  that,  hurtling  across 
a  sedgy  green  expanse  of  salt  meadow,  deposited  him  in  a 

[82] 


THE    EGYPTIAN    CHARIOT 

colorful  thronging  city  built  on  sand  and  the  rim  of  the 
sea.  It  was  best  to  avoid  if  possible  even  a  casual  in 
quiry,  and  Bowman  had  spoken  of  Atlantic  City.  The 
afternoon  was  hot  and  bright,  the  beach  was  still  dotted 
with  groups  of  bathers;  and  Lemuel  Doret  found  an  incon 
spicuous  place  in  a  row  of  swing  chairs  protected  by  an 
awning  .  .  .  where  he  waited  for  evening.  Below  him  a 
young  woman  lay  contentedly  with  her  head  in  a  youth's 
lap;  a  child  in  a  red  scrap  of  bathing  suit  dug  sturdily 
with  an  ineffectual  tin  spade. 

The  day  declined,  the  water  darkened  and  the  groups 
vanished  from  the  beach.  An  attendant  was  stacking  the 
swing  chairs,  and  Lemuel  Doret  left  his  place.  The 
boardwalk,  elevated  above  him,  was  filled  with  a  gay  mul 
titude,  subdued  by  the  early  twilight  and  the  brightening 
lemon-yellow  radiance  of  the  strung  globes.  Drifting, 
with  only  his  gaze  alert,  in  the  scented  mob,  he  stopped 
at  an  unremarkable  lunch  room  for  coffee,  and  afterward 
turned  down  a  side  avenue  to  where  some  automobiles 
waited  at  the  curb.  A  driver  moved  from  his  seat  as 
Lemuel  approached,  but  after  a  closer  inspection  the 
former's  interest  died. 

Doret  lighted  a  cigarette.  "  How  are  they  hitting 
you  ?  "  he  asked  negligently. 

"  Bad;  but  the  season  ain't  opened  up  right  yet.  It'll 
have  to  soon,  though,  if  they  want  me;  gas  has  gone  to 
where  it's  like  shoving  champagne  into  your  car." 

"  The  cafes  doing  anything?  " 

"None  except  the  Torquay;  but  the  cabaret  they  got 
takes  all  the  profits.  That's  on  the  front.  Then  there's 
the  World,  back  of  the  town.  It's  colored,  but  white  go. 

[83] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

Quite  a  place  —  I  saw  a  sailor  come  out  last  night  hashed 
with  a  knife." 

He  found  the  Torquay,  a  place  of  brilliant  illumination 
and  color,  packed  with  tables  about  a,  dancing  floor,  and 
small  insistent  orchestra.  He  sat  against  the  wall  by  the 
entrance,  apparently  sunk  in  apathy,  but  his  vision 
searched  the  crowd  like  the  cutting  bar  of  light  thrown 
on  the  intermittent  singers.  He  renewed  his  order.  To 
ward  midnight  a  fresh  influx  of  people  swept  in;  his 
search  was  unsatisfied. 

The  cigarette  girl,  pinkly  pretty  with  an  exaggerated 
figure,  carrying  a  wooden  tray  with  her  wares,  stopped  at 
his  gesture. 

"  Why  don't  you  hang  that  about  your  neck  with  some 
thing?  "  he  inquired. 

"And  get  round  shouldered!"  she  demanded.  Her 
manner  became  confidential.  "  I  do  get  fierce  tired,"  she 
admitted;  "nine  till  two-thirty." 

He  asked  for  a  particular  brand  of  cigarette. 

"We  haven't  got  them."  She  studied  him  with  a 
memorizing  frown.  "They  are  hardly  ever  asked  for; 
and  now  —  yes,  there  was  a  man,  last  night,  I  think " 

"  He  must  have  made  an  impression." 

"  Another  move  and  I'd  slapped  him  if  I  lost  my  job. 
They  got  to  be  some  fresh  when  they  disturb  me,  too." 

"Alone,  then?" 

"  That's  right.  Wanted  me  to  meet  him,  and  showed 
me  a  roll  of  money.  Me!  "  her  contempt  sharpened. 

"  He  was  young?  " 

"  Young  nothing,  with  gray  in  his  shoebrush  mustache." 

By  such  small  things,  Lemuel  Doret  reflected,  the  fresh- 
[84] 


THE    EGYPTIAN    CHARIOT 

ness  that  had  fixed  June  Bowman  in  the  girl's  memory, 
men  were  marked  and  followed. 

"  I  told  him,''  she  volunteered  further,  "  he  didn't  be 
long  on  the  boardwalk  but  in  the  rough  joints  past  the 
avenue." 

Paying  for  his  drink  Doret  left  the  Torquay;  and  fol 
lowing  the  slight  pressure  of  two  suggestions  and  a  faint 
possibility  he  found  himself  in  a  sodden  dark  district 
where  a  red-glass  electric  sign  proclaimed  the  entrance  to 
the  World.  An  automobile  stopped  and  a  chattering 
group  of  young  colored  girls  in  sheer  white  with  vivid 
ribbons,  accompanied  by  sultry  silent  negroes,  preceded 
him  into  the  cafe.  He  was  met  by  a  brassy  racket  and  a 
curiously  musty  heavy  air. 

The  room  was  long  and  narrow,  and  on  one  wall  a  nar 
row  long  platform  was  built  above  the  floor  for  the  cabaret. 
There  was  a  ledge  about  the  other  walls  the  width  of  one 
table,  and  below  that  the  space  was  crowded  by  a  singular 
assembly.  There  were  women  faintly  bisque  in  shade, 
with  beautiful  regular  features,  and  absolute  blacks  with 
flattened  noses  and  glistening  eyes  in  burning  red  and 
green  muslins.  Among  them  were  white  girls  with  untidy 
bright-gold  hair,  veiled  gaze  and  sullen  painted  lips ;  white 
men  sat  scattered  through  the  darker  throng,  men  like 
Lemuel  Doret,  quiet  and  watchful,  others  laughing  care 
lessly,  belligerent,  and  still  more  sunk  in  a  stupor  of  drink. 

Perhaps  ten  performers  occupied  the  stage,  and  at  one 
end  was  the  hysterical  scraping  on  strings,  the  muffled 
hammered  drums,  that  furnished  the  rhythm  for  a  slow 
intense  waltz.  ^ 

Yet  in  no  detail  was  the  place  so  marked  as  by  an  in- 
[85] 


THE   HAPPY   END 

definable  oppressive  atmosphere.  The  strong  musk  and 
edged  perfumes,  the  races,  distinct  and  subtly  antagonistic 
or  mingled  and  spoiled,  the  rasping  instruments,  combined 
in  an  unnatural  irritating  pressure;  they  produced  an 
actual  sensation  of  cold  and  staleness  like  that  from  the 
air  of  a  vault. 

Doret  ordered  beer  in  a  bottle,  and  watched  the  negro 
waitress  snap  off  the  cap.  He  had  never  seen  a  cafe  such 
as  this  before,  and  he  was  engaged,  slightly;  its  character 
he  expressed  comprehensively  in  the  word  "  bad." 

A  wonderfully  agile  dancer  caught  the  attention  of  the 
room.  The  musicians  added  their  voices  to  the  jangle, 
and  the  minor  half-inarticulate  wail,  the  dull  regular 
thudding  of  the  bass  drum  were  savage.  The  song  fluctu 
ated  and  died;  the  dancer  dropped  exhausted  into  her 
chair. 

Then  Lemuel  saw  June  Bowman.  He  was  only  a  short 
distance  away,  and  —  without  Bella  —  seated  alone  but 
talking  to  the  occupants  of  the  next  table.  Lemuel  Doret 
was  composed.  In  his  pocket  he  removed  the  automatic 
pistol  from  its  rubber  case.  Still  there  was  no  hurry  — 
Bowman  was  half  turned  from  him,  absolutely  at  his  com 
mand.  The  other  twisted  about,  his  glance  swept  the 
room,  and  he  recognized  Doret.  He  half  rose  from  his 
chair,  made  a  gesture  of  acknowledgment  that  died  before 
Lemuel's  stony  face,  and  sank  back  into  his  place.  Lem 
uel  saw  Bowman's  hand  slip  under  his  coat,  but  it  came 
out  immediately;  the  fingers  drummed  on  the  table. 

The  careless  fool  —  he  was  unarmed. 

There  was  no  hurry;  he  could  make  one,  two  steps  at 
Bowman's  slightest  movement.  .  .  .  Lemuel  thought  of 

[86] 


THE   EGYPTIAN    CHARIOT 

Fla villa  deserted,  dying  alone  with  a  parched  mouth,  of 
all  that  had  gone  to  wreck  in  the  evil  that  had  overtaken 
him  —  the  past  that  could  not,  it  appeared,  be  killed.  Yet 
where  Bowman  was  the  past,  it  was  nearly  over.  He'd 
finish  the  beer  before  him,  that  would  leave  some  in  the 
bottle,  and  then  end  it.  With  the  glass  poised  in  his  hand 
he  heard  an  absurd  unexpected  sound.  Looking  up  he 
saw  that  it  came  from  the  platform,  from  a  black  woman 
in  pale-blue  silk,  a  short  ruffled  skirt  and  silver-paper 
ornaments  in  her  tightly  crinkled  hair.  She  was  singing, 
barely  audibly: 

"  Oh,  children.  .  .  .  lost  in  Egypt 
See  that  chariot.  .  .  . 
.  .  .  good  tidings!  " 

Even  from  his  table  across  the  room  he  realized  that 
she  was  sunk  in  an  abstraction;  her  eyes  were  shut  and 
her  body  rocking  in  beat  to  the  line. 

"  Good  tidings,"  she  sang. 

A  negro  close  beside  Doret  looked  up  suddenly,  and  his 
voice  joined  in  a  humming  undertone,  "  See  that  chariot, 
oh,  good  tidings  .  .  .  that  Egyptian  chariot." 

A  vague  emotion  stirred  within  Lemuel  Doret,  the  sing 
ing  annoyed  him,  troubled  him  with  memories  of  perish 
ing  things.  Another  joined,  and  the  spiritual  swelled 
slightly,  haltingly  above  the  clatter  of  glasses  and  laugh 
ter.  The  woman  who  had  begun  it  was  swept  to  her  feet ; 
she  stood  with  her  tinsel  gayety  of  apparel  making  her 
tragic  ebony  face  infinitely  grotesque  and  tormented  while 
her  tone  rose  in  a  clear  emotional  soprano: 

[87] 


THE   HAPPY   END 

"  Children  of  Israel,  unhappy  slaves, 

Good  tidings,  good  tidings , 
For  that  chariot's  coming, 
God's  chariot's  coming, 
.  .  .  coming, 


.  .  .  chariot  out  of  Egypt" 

The  magic  of  her  feeling  swept  like  a  flame  over  the 
room;  shrill  mirth,  mocking  calls,  curses  were  bound 
in  a  louder  and  louder  volume  of  hope  and  praise.  The 
negroes  were  on  their  feet,  swaying  in  the  hysterical  con 
tagion  of  melody,  the  unutterable  longing  of  their  alien 
isolation. 

"  God's  chariot's  coming."  The  song  filled  the  roof, 
hung  with  bright  strips  of  paper,  it  boomed  through  the 
windows  and  doors.  Sobbing  cries  cut  through  it,  pro 
found  invocations,  beautiful  shadowy  voices  chimed  above 
the  weight  of  sound. 

It  beat  like  a  hammer  on  Lemuel  Doret's  brain  and 
heart.  Suddenly  he  couldn't  breathe,  and  he  rose  with 
a  gasp,  facing  the  miracle  that  had  overtaken  the  place  he 
called  bad.  God's  chariot  —  was  there!  He  heard 
God's  very  tone  directed  at  him.  Borne  upward  on  the 
flood  of  exaltation  he  seemed  to  leave  the  earth  far,  far 
away.  Something  hard,  frozen,  in  him  burst,  and  tears 
ran  over  his  face;  he  was  torn  by  fear  and  terrible  joy. 
His  Lord.  .  .  . 

He  fell  forward  on  his  knees,  an  arm  overturning  the 
bottle  of  beer;  and,  his  sleeve  dabbled  in  it,  he  pressed  his 
head  against  the  cold  edge  of  the  table,  praying  wordlessly 

[88] 


THE    EGYPTIAN    CHARIOT 

for  faith,  incoherently  ravished  by  the  marvel  of  salva 
tion,  the  knowledge  of  God  here,  everywhere. 

The  harmony  wavered  and  sank,  and  out  of  the  shud 
dering  silence  that  followed  Lemuel  Doret  turned  again 
from  the  city. 


[89] 


THE  FLOWER  OF  SPAIN 


EOM  the  window  of  the  drawing-room  Lavinia 
•Janviano  could  see,  on  the  left,  the  Statue  of 
Graribaldi,  where  the  Corso  Regina  Maria  cut  into 
the  Lungarno;  on  the  right,  and  farther  along,  the  gray- 
green  foliage  of  the  Cascine.  Before  her  the  Arno  flowed 
away,  sluggish  and  without  a  wrinkle  or  reflection  on  its 
turbid  surface,  into  Tuscany.  It  was  past  the  middle 
of  afternoon,  and  a  steady  procession  of  carriages  and 
mounted  officers  in  pale  blue  tunics  moved  below  toward 
the  shade  of  the  Cascine. 

Lavinia  could  not  see  this  gay  progress  very  well,  for 
the  window  —  it  had  only  a  narrow  ledge  guarded  by  an 
iron  grille  —  was  practically  filled  by  her  sister,  Gheta, 
and  Anna  Mantegazza.  Occasionally  she  leaned  forward, 
pressed  upon  Gheta's  shoulder,  for  a  hasty  unsatisfactory 
glimpse. 

"You  are  crushing  my  sleeves!"  Gheta  finally  and 
sharply  complained.  "  Do  go  somewhere  else.  Anna  and 
I  want  to  talk  without  your  young  ears  eternally  about. 
When  do  you  return  to  the  convent?  " 

Lavinia  drew  back.  However,  she  didn't  leave.  She 
was  accustomed  to  her  sister's  complaining,  and  —  unless 
the  other  went  to  their  father  —  she  ignored  her  hints. 
Lavinia's  curiosity  in  worldly  scenes  and  topics  was  almost 
as  full  as  her  imagination  thereof.  She  was  sixteen,  and 
would  have  to  endure  another  year  of  obscurity  before  her 

[93] 


THE   HAPPY    END 

marriage  could  be  thought  of,  or  she  take  any  part  in  the 
social  life  where  Gheta  moved  with  such  marked  suc 
cess. 

But,  Lavinia  realized  with  a  sigh,  she  couldn't  expect 
to  be  pursued  like  Gheta,  who  was  very  beautiful.  Gheta 
was  so  exceptional  that  she  had  been  introduced  to  the 
Florentine  polite  world  without  the  customary  preliminary 
of  marriage.  She  could,  almost  every  one  agreed,  marry 
very  nearly  whomever  and  whenever  she  willed.  Even 
now,  after  the  number  of  years  she  had  been  going  about 
with  practically  all  her  friends  wedded,  no  one  seriously 
criticized  the  Sanvianos  for  not  insisting  on  a  match  with 
one  of  the  several  eligibles  who  had  unquestionably  pre 
sented  themselves. 

Gheta  was  slender  and  round;  her  complexion  had  the 
flawless  pallid  bloom  of  a  gardenia;  her  eyes  and  hair 
were  dark,  and  her  lips  an  enticing  scarlet  thread.  Per 
haps  her  chin  was  a  trifle  lacking  in  definition,  her  voice  a 
little  devoid  of  warmth ;  but  those  were  minor  defects  in  a 
person  so  precisely  radiant.  Her  dress  was  always  notice 
ably  lovely;  at  present  she  wore  pink  tulle  over  lustrous 
gray,  with  a  high  silver  girdle,  a  narrow  black  velvet  band 
and  diamond  clasp  about  her  delicate  full  throat. 

Anna  Mantegazza  was  more  elaborately  gowned,  in 
white  embroidery,  with  a  little  French  hat;  but  Anna 
Mantegazza  was  an  American  with  millions,  and  elabora 
tion  was  a  commonplace  with  her.  Lavinia  wore  only  a 
simple  white  slip,  confined  about  her  flexible  waist  with 
a  yellow  ribbon;  and  she  was  painfully  conscious  of  the 
contrast  she  presented  to  the  two  women  seated  in  the 
front  of  the  window. 

[94] 


THE   FLOWER   OF   SPAIN 

The  fact  was  that  a  whole  fifth  of  the  Sanvianos'  income 
was  spent  on  Gheta's  clothes;  and  this  left  only  the  most 
meager  provision  for  Lavinia.  But  this,  the  latter  felt, 
was  just  —  still  in  the  convent,  she  required  comparatively 
little  personal  adornment;  while  the  other's  beauty  de 
manded  a  worthy  emphasis.  Later  Lavinia  would  have 
tulle  and  silver  lace.  She  wished,  however,  that  Gheta 
would  get  married;  for  Lavinia  knew  that  even  if  she 
came  home  she  would  be  held  back  until  the  older  sister 
was  settled.  It  was  her  opinion  that  Gheta  was  very  silly 
to  show  such  indifference  to  Cesare  Orsi.  .  .  .  Suddenly 
she  longed  to  have  men  —  not  fat  and  good-natured  like 
the  Neapolitan  banker,  but  austere  and  romantic  —  in 
love  with  her.  She  clasped  her  hands  to  her  fine  young 
breast  and  a  delicate  color  stained  her  cheeks.  She  stood 
very  straight  and  her  breathing  quickened  through  parted 
lips. 

She  was  disturbed  by  the  echo  of  a  voice  from  the  cool 
depths  of  the  house,  and  turned  at  approaching  footfalls. 
The  room  was  so  high  and  large  that  its  stiff  gilt  and 
brocade  furnishing  appeared  insignificant.  Three  long 
windows  faced  the  Lungarno,  but  two  were  screened  with 
green  slatted  blinds  and  heavily  draped,  and  the  light 
within  was  silvery  and  illusive.  A  small  man  in  correct 
English  clothes,  with  a  pointed  bald  head  and  a  heavy 
nose,  entered  impulsively. 

"  It's  Bembo,"  Lavinia  announced  flatly. 

"  Of  course  it's  Bembo,"  he  echoed  vivaciously. 
"Who's  more  faithful  to  the  Casa  Sanviano " 

"  At  tea  time,"  Lavinia  interrupted. 

"  Lavinia,"  her  sister  said  sharply,  "  don't  be  imperti- 
[95] 


THE   HAPPY    END 

nent.  There  are  so  many  strangers  driving,"  she  con 
tinued,  to  the  man;  "  do  stand  and  tell  us  who  they  are. 
You  know  every  second  person  in  Europe." 

He  pressed  eagerly  forward,  and  Anna  Mantegazza 
turned  and  patted  his  hand. 

"  I  wish  you  were  so  attentive  to  Pier  and  myself,"  she 
remarked,  both  light  and  serious.  "  I'd  like  to  buy  you  — 
you're  indispensable  in  Florence." 

"  Contessa!  "  he  protested.     "  Delighted!     At  once." 

"  Bembo,"  Gheta  demanded,  "  duty  —  who's  that  in  the 
little  carriage  with  the  bells  bowed  over  the  horses  ?  " 

He  leaned  out  over  the  grille,  his  beady  alert  gaze 
sweeping  the  way  below. 

"  Litolff,"  he  pronounced  without  a  moment's  hesita 
tion  — "  a  Russian  swell.  The  girl  with  him  is " 

He  stopped  with  a  side  glance  at  Lavinia,  a  slight  shrug. 

"  Positively,  Lavinia,"  Gheta  insisted  again,  more 
crossly,  "  you're  a  nuisance !  When  do  you  go  back  to 
school?" 

"  In  a  week,"  Lavinia  answered  serenely. 

With  Bembo  added  to  the  others,  she  could  see  almost 
nothing  of  the  scene  below.  Across  the  river  the  declining 
sun  cast  a  rosy  light  on  the  great  glossy  hedges  and  clipped 
foliage  of  the  Boboli  Gardens;  far  to  the  left  the  paved 
height  of  the  Piazzale  Michelangelo  rose  above  the  somber 
sweep  of  roofs  and  bridges;  an  aged  bell  rang  harshly 
and  mingled  with  the  inconsequential  clatter  on  the  Lun- 
garno.  An  overwhelming  sense  of  the  mystery  of  being 
stabbed,  sharp  as  a  knife,  at  her  heart;  a  choking  longing 
possessed  her  to  experience  all  —  all  the  wonders  of  life, 
but  principally  love. 

[96] 


THE   FLOWER   OF   SPAIN 

"Look,  Bembo!  "  Anna  Mantegazza  suddenly  ex 
claimed.  "  No;  there  —  approaching!  Who's  that  sin 
gular  person  in  the  hired  carriage?  " 

Her  interest  was  so  roused  that  Lavinia,  once  more  for 
getful  of  Gheta's  sleeves,  leaned  over  her  sister's  shoulder, 
and  immediately  distinguished  the  object  of  their  curiosity. 

An  open  cab  was  moving  slowly,  almost  directly  under 
the  window,  with  a  single  patron  —  a  slender  man,  sitting 
rigidly  erect,  in  a  short,  black  shell  jacket,  open  upon 
white  linen,  a  long  black  tie,  and  a  soft  narrow  scarlet 
sash.  He  wore  a  wide-brimmed  stiff  felt  hat  slanted  over 
a  thin  countenance  burned  by  the  sun  as  dark  as  green 
bronze;  his  face  was  as  immobile  as  metal,  too;  it  bore,  as 
if  permanently  molded,  an  expression  of  excessive  con 
temptuous  pride. 

Bembo's  voice  rose  in  a  babble  of  excited  information. 

"  '  Singular  ?  '  Why,  that's  one  of  the  most  interesting 
men  alive.  It's  Abrego  y  Mochales,  the  greatest  bull 
fighter  in  existence,  the  Flower  of  Spain.  I've  seen  him 
in  the  ring  and  at  San  Sebastian  with  the  King ;  and  I  can 
assure  you  that  one  was  hardly  more  important  than  the 
other.  He's  idolized  by  every  one  in  Spain  and  South 
America;  women  of  all  classes  fall  over  each  other  with 
declarations  and  gifts." 

As  if  he  had  heard  the  pronouncement  of  his  name  the 
man  in  the  cab  turned  sharply  and  looked  up.  Gheta  was 
leaning  out,  and  his  gaze  fastened  upon  her  with  a 
sudden  and  extraordinary  intensity.  Lavinia  saw  that 
her  sister,  without  dissembling  her  interest,  sat  forward, 
statutesque  and  lovely.  It  seemed  to  the  former  that  the 
cab  was  an  intolerable  time  passing;  she  wished  to  draw 

[97] 


THE   HAPPY    END 

Gheta  back,  to  cover  her  indiscretion  from  Anna  Mante- 
gazza's  prying  sight.  She  sighed  with  inexplicable  relief 
when  she  saw  that  the  man  had  driven  beyond  them 
and  that  he  did  not  turn. 

A  bull-fighter!  A  blurred  picture  formed  in  Lavinia's 
mind  from  the  various  details  she  had  read  and  heard  of 
the  cruelty  of  the  Spanish  national  sport  —  torn  horses, 
stiff  on  blood-soaked  sand;  a  frenzied  and  savage  popu 
lace;  and  charging  bulls,  drenched  with  red  froth.  She 
shuddered. 

"  What  a  brute!  "  she  spoke  aloud  unintentionally. 

Gheta  glanced  at  her  out  of  a  cool  superiority,  but  Anna 
Mantegazza  nodded  vigorously. 

"  He  would  be  a  horrid  person!  "  she  affirmed. 

"  How  silly!  "  Gheta  responded.  "  It's  an  art,  like  the 
opera;  he's  an  artist  in  courage.  Personally  I  find  it 
rather  fascinating.  Most  men  are  so  —  so  mild." 

Lavinia  knew  that  the  other  was  thinking  of  Cesare 
Orsi,  and  she  agreed  with  her  sister  that  Orsi  was  far  too 
mild.  Without  the  Orsi  fortune  —  he  had  much  more 
even  than  Anna  Mantegazza  —  Cesare  would  simply  get 
nowhere.  The  Spaniard  —  Lavinia  could  not  recall  his 
name,  although  it  hung  elusively  among  her  thoughts  — 
was  different;  women  of  all  classes,  Bembo  had  said,  pur 
sued  him  with  favors.  He  could  be  cruel,  she  decided, 
and  shivered  a  little  vicariously.  She  half  heard  Bembo's 
rapid  high-pitched  excitement  over  trifles. 

"  You  are  going  to  the  Guarinis'  sale  to-morrow  after 
noon?  But,  of  course,  every  one  is.  Well,  if  I  come 
across  Abrego  y  Mochales  before  then,  and  I'm  almost  cer 
tain  to,  and  he'll  come,  I'll  bring  him.  He's  as  proud  as 

[98] 


THE    FLOWER   OF   SPAIN 

the  devil  —  duchesses,  you  see  —  so  no  airs  with  him. 
The  Flower  of  Spain.  A  king  of  sport  sits  high  at  the 

table "  He  went  on,  apparently  interminable;  but 

Lavinia  turned  away  to  where  tea  was  being  laid  in  a 
far  angle. 

Others  approached  over  the  tiled  hall  and  the  Marchese 
Sanviano  entered  with  Cesare  Orsi.  The  window  was 
deserted,  and  the  women  trailed  gracefully  toward  the 
bubbling  minor  note  of  the  alcohol  lamp.  Both  Sanviano 
and  Orsi  were  big  men  —  the  former,  like  Bembo,  wore 
English  clothes;  but  Orsi's  ungainly  body  had  been  tightly 
garbed  by  a  Southern  military  tailor,  making  him  — 
Lavinia  thought  —  appear  absolutely  ridiculous.  His 
collar  was  both  too  tight  and  too  high,  although  perspira 
tion  promised  relief  from  the  latter. 

A  general  and  unremarkable  conversation  mingled  with 
the  faint  rattle  of  passing  cups  and  low  directions  to  a 
servant.  Lavinia  was  seated  next  to  Cesare  Orsi,  but  she 
was  entirely  oblivious  of  his  heavy  kindly  face  and  almost 
anxiously  benevolent  gaze.  He  spoke  to  her,  and  because 
she  had  comprehended  nothing  of  his  speech  she  smiled 
at  him  with  an  absent  and  illuminating  charm.  He  smiled 
back,  happy  in  her  apparent  pleasure ;  and  his  good-nature 
was  so  insistent  that  she  was  impelled  to  reward  it  with  a 
remark. 

She  thought,  she  said,  that  Gheta  was  particularly 
lovely  this  afternoon.  He  agreed  eagerly;  and  Lavinia 
wondered  whether  she  had  been  clumsy.  She  simply 
couldn't  imagine  marrying  Cesare  Orsi,  but  she  knew  that 
such  a  match  for  Gheta  was  freely  discussed,  and  she 
hoped  that  her  sister  would  not  make  difficulties.  She 

[99] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

wouldn't  have  dresses  so  fussy  as  Gheta's  —  in  figure,  any 
how,  she  was  perhaps  her  sister's  superior  —  fine  mate 
rials,  simply  cut,  with  a  ruffle  at  the  throat  and  hem,  a 
satin  wrap  pointed  at  the  back,  with  a  soft  tassel.  .  .  . 

Orsi  was  talking  to  Gheta,  and  she  was  answering  him 
with  a  brevity  that  had  cast  a  shade  of  annoyance  over  the 
Marchese  Sanviano's  large  features.  Lavinia  agreed 
with  her  father  that  Gheta  was  a  fool.  She  must  be 
thirty,  the  younger  suddenly  realized.  Bembo  was  grow 
ing  hysterical  from  the  tea  and  his  own  shrill  anecdotes. 
He  resembled  a  grotesque  performing  bird  with  a  large 
beak.  Lavinia 's  mind  returned  to  the  silent  dark  man 
who  had  passed  in  a  cab.  She  wished,  now,  that  she  had 
been  sitting  at  the  front  of  the  window  —  the  object  of  his 
unsparing  intense  gaze.  She  realized  that  he  was  ex 
tremely  handsome,  and  contrasted  his  erect  slim  carriage 
with  Orsi's  thick  slouched  shoulders.  The  latter  inter 
rupted  her  look,  misinterpreted  it,  and  said  something 
about  candy  from  Giacosa's. 

Lavinia  thanked  him  and  rose;  the  discussion  about 
the  tea  table  became  unbearably  stupid,  no  better  than  the 
flat  chatter  of  the  nuns  at  school. 

Her  room  was  small  and  barely  furnished,  with  a  thin 
rug  over  the  stone  floor,  and  opened  upon  the  court  about 
which  the  house  was  built.  The  Sanvianos  occupied  the 
second  floor.  Below,  the  piano  nobile  was  rented  by  the 
proprietor  of  a  great  wine  industry.  It  was  evident  that 
he  was  going  out  to  dinner,  for  his  dark  blue  brougham 
was  waiting  at  the  inner  entrance.  The  horse,  a  fine 
sleek  animal,  was  stamping  impatiently,  with  ringing 
shoes,  on  the  paved  court.  A  flowering  magnolia  tree 

[100] 


THE   FLOWER   OF   SP'AIN 

against  one  corner  filled  the  thickening  dusk  WJth*& 
palpitating  sweetness. 

Lavinia  stayed  for  a  long  while  at  the  ledge  of  her  win 
dow.  Her  hair,  which  she  wore  braided  in  a  smooth 
heavy  rope,  slid  out  and  hung  free.  The  brougham  left, 
with  a  clatter  of  hoofs  and  a  final  clang  of  the  great  iron- 
bound  door  on  the  street;  above,  white  stars  grew  visible 
in  a  blue  dust.  She  dressed  slowly,  changing  from  one 
plain  gown  to  another  hardly  less  simple.  Before  the 
mirror,  in  an  unsatisfactory  lamplight,  she  studied  her 
appearance  in  comparison  with  Gheta's. 

She  lacked  the  latter's  lustrous  pallor,  the  petal-like 
richness  of  Gheta's  skin.  Lavinia's  cheeks  bore  a  per 
ceptible  flush,  which  she  detested  and  tried  vainly  to  mask 
with  powder.  Her  eyes,  a  clear  bluish  gray,  inherited 
from  the  Lombard  strain  in  her  mother,  were  not  so  much 
fancied  as  her  sister's  brown;  but  at  least  they  were  more 
uncommon  and  contrasted  nicely  with  her  straight  dark 
bang.  Her  shoulders  and  arms  she  surveyed  with  frank 
healthy  approbation.  Now  her  hair  annoyed  her,  swing 
ing  childishly  about  her  waist,  and  she  secured  it  in  an 
instinctively  effective  coil  on  the  top  of  her  head.  She 
decided  to  leave  it  there  for  dinner.  Her  mother  was  away 
for  the  night;  and  she  knew  that  Gheta's  sarcasm  would 
only  s,tir  their  father  to  a  teasing  mirth. 

Later,  Gheta  departed  for  a  ball,  together  with  the 
Marchese  Sanviano  —  to  be  dropped  at  his  club  —  and 
Lavinia  was  left  alone.  The  scene  in  the  court  was  re 
peated,  but  with  less  flourish  than  earlier  in  the  evening. 
Gheta  would  be  nominally  in  the  charge  of  Anna  Mante- 
gazza;  but  Lavinia  knew  how  laxly  the  American  would 

[101] 


THE   HAPPY    END 

hold  h^r.  resptHisitgilijy.  •'  She  wished,  moving  disconso 
lately  under  high  painted  ceilings  through  the  semi-gloom 
of  still  formal  chambers,  that  she  was  a  recognized  beauty 
—  free,  like  Gheta. 

The  drawing-room,  from  which  they  had  watched  the 
afternoon  procession,  was  in  complete  darkness,  save  for 
the  luminous  rectangle  of  the  window  they  had  occupied. 
Its  drapery  was  still  disarranged.  Lavinia  crossed  the 
room  and  stood  at  the  grille.  The  lights  strung  along 
the  river,  curving  away  like  uniform  pale  bubbles,  cast  a 
thin  illumination  over  the  Lungarno,  through  which  a 
solitary  vehicle  moved.  Lavinia  idly  watched  it  approach, 
but  her  interest  increased  as  it  halted  directly  opposite 
where  she  stood.  A  man  got  quickly  out  —  a  lithe  figure 
with  a  broad-brimmed  hat  slanted  across  his  eyes.  It  was, 
she  realized  with  an  involuntary  quickening  of  her  blood, 
Abrego  y  Mochales.  A  second  man  followed,  tendered 
him  a  curiously  shaped  object,  and  stood  by  the  waiting 
cab  while  the  bull-fighter  walked  deliberately  forward. 
He  stopped  under  the  window  and  shifted  the  thing  in 
his  hands. 

A  rich  chord  of  strings  vibrated  through  the  night, 
another  followed,  and  then  a  brief  pattern  of  sound  was 
woven  from  the  serious  notes  of  a  guitar.  Lavinia  shrank 
back  within  the  room  —  it  was  incredibly,  a  serenade  on 
the  stolid  Lungarno.  It  was  for  Gheta !  The  romance  of 
the  south  of  Spain  had  come  to  life  under  their  window. 
A  voice  joined  the  instrument,  melodious  and  melancholy, 
singing  an  air  with  little  variation,  but  with  an  insistent 
burden  of  desire.  The  voice  and  the  guitar  mingled  and 
fluctuated,  drifting  up  from  the  pavement  exotic  and 

[102] 


THE   FLOWER   OF   SPAIN 

moving.     Lavinia   could    comprehend   but   little   of   the 
Spanish : 

"  /  followed  through  the  acacias, 

But  it  was  only  the  wind. 
....  looked  for  you  beyond  the  limes " 


The  thrill  at  her  heart  deepened  until  tears  wet  her 
cheeks.  It  was  for  Gheta,  but  it  overwhelmed  Lavinia 
with  a  formless  and  aching  emotion;  it  was  for  Gheta,  but 
her  response  was  instant  and  uncontrollable.  It  seemed 
to  Lavinia  that  the  sheer  beauty  of  life,  which  had  moved 
her  so  sharply,  had  been  magnified  unbearably;  she 
had  never  dreamed  of  the  possibilities  of  such  ecstasy  or 
such  delectable  grief. 

The  song  ended  abruptly,  with  a  sharp  jarring  note. 
The  man  by  the  carriage  moved  deferentially  forward  and 
took  the  guitar.  She  could  see  the  minute  pulsating 
sparks  of  cigarettes;  heard  a  direction  to  the  driver. 
Abrego  y  Mochales  and  the  other  got  into  the  cab  and  it 
turned  and  shambled  away.  Lavinia  Sanviano  moved 
forward  mechanically,  gazing  after  the  dark  vanishing 
shape  on  the  road.  She  was  shaken,  almost  appalled,  by 
the  feeling  that  stirred  her.  A  momentary  terror  of  living 
swept  over  her;  the  thrills  persisted;  her  hands  were  icy 
cold.  She  had  been  safely  a  child  until  now,  when  she 
had  lost  that  small  security,  and  gained  —  what? 

She  studied  herself,  clad  in  her  coarse  nightgown  with 

narrow  lace,  in  her  inadequate  mirror.     The  color  had  left 

her  cheeks   and   her  eyes   shone  darkly   from   shadows. 

"Lavinia    Sanviano!"    she   spoke   aloud,   with   the   ex- 

[103] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

traordinary  sensation  of  addressing,  in  her  reflection,  a 
stranger.  She  could  never,  never  wear  her  hair  down 
again,  she  thought  with  an  odd  pang. 

II 

Gheta  invariably  took  breakfast  in  her  room.  It  was 
a  larger  chamber  by  far  than  Lavinia's,  toward  the  Via 
Garibaldi.  A  thick  white  bearskin  was  spread  by  the 
canopied  bed,  an  elaborate  dressing  table  stood  between 
long  windows  drawn  with  ruffled  pink  silk,  while  the  ceil 
ing  bore  a  scaling  ottocento  frescoing  of  garlanded  cupids. 
She  was  sitting  in  bed,  the  chocolate  pot  on  a  painted 
table  at  her  side,  when  Lavinia  entered. 

A  maid  was  putting  soft  paper  in  the  sleeves  of  Gheta's 
ball  dress,  and  Lavinia,  finding  an  unexpected  reluctance 
to  proceed  with  what  she  had  come  to  say,  watched  the 
servant's  deft  care. 

"  Mochales  was  here  last  night,"  Lavinia  finally  re 
marked  abruptly  — "  that  is  he  stood  on  the  street  and  sere 
naded  you." 

Gheta  put  her  cup  down  with  a  clatter. 

"  How  charming !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  And  I  missed  it 
for  an  insufferable  affair.  He  stood  under  the  win 
dow " 

"  With  a  guitar,"  Lavinia  proceeded  evenly.  "  It  was 
very  beautiful." 

"Heavens!  Bembo's  going  to  fetch  him  to  the 
Guarinis'  sale,  and  I  forgot  and  promised  Anna  Mante- 
gazza  to  drive  out  to  Arcetri !  But  Anna  won't  miss  this. 
It  was  really  a  very  pretty  compliment." 

[104] 


THE    FLOWER   OF   SPAIN 

She  spoke  with  a  trivial  satisfaction  that  jarred  pain 
fully  on  Lavinia's  memory  of  the  past  night.  Gheta 
calmly  accepted  the  serenade  as  another  tribute  to  her 
beauty;  Lavinia  could  imagine  what  Anna  Mantegazza 
and  her  sister  would  say,  and  they  both  seemed  common 
place  —  even  a  little  vulgar  —  to  her  acutely  sensitive 
being.  She  suddenly  lost  her  desire  to  resemble  Gheta; 
her  sister  diminished  in  her  estimation.  The  elder,  La 
vinia  realized  with  an  unsparing  detachment,  was  envel 
oped  in  a  petty  vanity  acquired  in  an  atmosphere  of  con 
tinuous  flattery;  it  had  chilled  her  heart. 

The  Guarinis,  who  had  been  overtaken  by  misfortune, 
and  whose  household  goods  were  being  disposed  of  at  pub 
lic  sale,  occupied  a  large  gloomy  floor  on  the  Via  Cavour. 
The  rooms  were  crowded  by  their  friends  and  the  merely 
curious;  the  carpets  were  protected  by  a  temporary  cover 
ing;  and  all  the  furnishings,  the  chairs  and  piano,  pic 
tures,  glass  and  bijoux,  bore  gummed  and  numbered  labels. 

The  sale  was  progressing  in  one  of  the  larger  salons,  but 
the  crowd  circulated  in  a  slow  solid  undulation  through 
every  room.  Gheta  and  Anna  Mantegazza  had  sought 
the  familiar  comfortable  corner  of  an  entresol,  and  were 
seated.  Lavinia  was  standing  tensely,  with  a  laboring 
breast,  when  Bembo  suddenly  appeared  with  the  man 
whom  he  had  called  the  Flower  of  Spain. 

"  The  Contessa  Mantegazza,"  Bembo  said  suavely, 
"  Signorina  Sanviano,  this  is  Abrego  y  Mochales." 

The  bull-fighter  bowed  with  magnificent  flexibility.  A 
hot  resentment  possessed  Lavinia  at  Bembo's  apparent 
ignoring  of  her;  but  he  had  not  seen  her  at  first  and 
hastened  to  repair  his  omission.  Lavinia  inclined  her 

[105] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

head  stiffly.  An  increasing  confusion  enveloped  her,  but 
she  forced  herself  to  gaze  directly  into  Mochales'  still 
black  eyes.  His  face,  she  saw,  was  gaunt,  the  ridges  of 
his  skull  apparent  under  the  bronzed  skin.  His  hair, 
worn  in  a  queue,  was  pinned  in  a  flat  disk  on  his  head,  and 
small  gold  loops  had  been  riveted  in  his  ears;  but  these 
peculiarities  of  garb  were  lost  in  the  man's  intense  virility, 
his  patent  brute  force.  His  fine  perfumed  linen,  the 
touch  of  scarlet  at  his  waist,  his  extremely  high-heeled 
patent-leather  boots  under  soft  uncreased  trousers,  served 
only  to  emphasize  his  resolute  metal  —  they  resembled  an 
embroidered  and  tasseled  scabbard  that  held  a  keen,  thin 
and  dangerous  blade. 

Anna  Mantegazza  extended  her  hand  in  the  American 
fashion,  and  Gheta  smiled  from  —  Lavinia  saw  —  her 
best  facial  angle.  The  Spaniard  regarded  Gheta  San- 
viano  so  fixedly  that  after  a  moment  she  turned,  in  a 
species  of  constraint,  to  Anna.  The  latter  spoke  with  her 
customary  facility  and  the  man  responded  gravely. 

They  stood  a  little  aside  from  Lavinia;  she  only  partly 
heard  their  remarks,  but  she  saw  that  Abrego  y  Mochales' 
attention  never  strayed  from  her  sister.  Vicariously  it 
made  her  giddy.  The  man  absolutely  summed  up  all  that 
Lavinia  had  dreamed  of  a  romantic  and  masterful  person 
age.  She  felt  convinced  that  he  had  destroyed  her  life's 
happiness  —  no  other  man  could  ever  appeal  to  her  now; 
none  other  could  satisfy  the  tumult  he  had  aroused  in  her. 
This,  she  told  herself,  desperately  miserable,  was  love. 

Gheta  spoke  of  her,  for  the  three  turned  to  regard  her. 
She  met  their  scrutiny  with  a  doubtful  half  smile,  which 
vanished  as  Anna  Mantegazza  made  a  light  comment  upon 

[106] 


THE   FLOWER   OF   SPAIN 

her  hair  being  so  newly  up.  Lavinia  detested  the  latter 
with  a  sudden  and  absurd  intensity.  She  saw  Anna,  with 
a  veiled  glance  at  Gheta,  make  an  apology  and  leave  to 
join  an  eddy  of  familiars  that  had  formed  in  the  human 
stream  sweeping  by.  Mochales  stood  very  close  to  her 
sister,  speaking  seriously,  while  Gheta  nervously  fingered 
the  short  veil  hanging  from  her  gay  straw  hat. 

A  familiar  kindly  voice  sounded  suddenly  in  Lavinia's 
ears,  and  Cesare  Orsi  joined  her.  He  was  about  to  move 
forward  toward  Gheta;  but,  before  he  could  attract  her 
attention,  she  disappeared  in  the  crowd  with  the  Span 
iard. 

"Who  was  it?"  he  inquired.  "He  resembles  a  jug 
gler." 

Lavinia  elaborately  masked  her  hot  resentment  at  this 
fresh  stupidity.  She  must  not,  she  felt,  allow  Orsi  to 
discover  her  feeling  for  Abrego  y  Mochales;  that  was  a 
secret  she  must  keep  forever  from  the  profane  world.  She 
would  die,  perhaps  at  a  terribly  advanced  age,  with  it 
locked  in  her  heart.  But  if  Gheta  married  him  she  would 
go  into  a  convent. 

"  A  bull-fighter,  I  believe,"  she  said  carelessly. 

"  In  other  words,  a  brute,"  Orsi  continued.  "  Such  men 
are  not  fit  for  the  society  of  —  of  your  sister.  One  would 
think  his  mere  presence  would  make  her  ill.  .  .  .  Yet 
she  seemed  quite  pleased." 

"  Strange!  "  Lavinia  spoke  with  innocent  eyes. 

It  was  like  turning  a  knife  in  her  wound  to  agree  ap 
parently  with  Cesare  Orsi  —  rather,  she  wanted  to  laugh  at 
him  coldly  and  leave  him  standing  alone;  but  she  must 
cultivate  her  defenses.  There  was,  too,  a  sort  of  nega- 

[107] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

tive  pleasure  in  misleading  the  banker,  a  sort  of  torment 
not  unlike  that  enjoyed  by  the  early  martyrs. 

Cesare  Orsi  regarded  her  with  new  interest  and  appro 
bation. 

"You're  a  sensible  girl,"  he  proclaimed;  "and  ex 
tremely  pretty  in  the  bargain."  He  added  this  in  an  ac 
cent  of  profound  surprise,  as  if  she  had  suddenly  grown 
presentable  under  his  eyes.  "  In  some  ways,"  he  went 
on,  gathering  conviction,  "  you  are  as  handsome  as  Gheta." 

"  Thank  you,  Signor  Orsi,"  Lavinia  responded  with 
every  indication  of  a  modesty,  which,  in  fact,  was  the 
indifference  of  a  supreme  contempt. 

"  I  have  been  blind,"  he  asseverated,  vivaciously  ges 
ticulating  with  his  thick  hands. 

Lavinia  studied  him  with  a  remote  young  brutality, 
from  his  fluffy  disarranged  hair,  adhering  to  his  wet  brow, 
to  his  extravagantly  pointed  shoes.  The  ridiculous  coral 
charm  hanging  from  his  heavy  watch  chain,  a  violent 
green  handkerchief,  an  insufferable  cameo  pin  —  all  con 
tributed  pleasurably  to  the  lowering  of  her  opinion  of 
him. 

"  I  must  find  Gheta,"  she  pronounced,  suddenly  aware 
of  her  isolation  with  Cesare  Orsi  in  the  crowd,  and 
of  curious  glances.  Orsi  immediately  took  her  arm,  but 
she  eluded  him.  "  Go  first,  please;  we  can  get  through 
sooner  that  way." 

They  progressed  from  room  to  room,  thoroughly 
exploring  the  dense  throng  about  the  auctioneer,  but 
without  finding  either  Gheta,  Anna  Mantegazza  or  the 
bull-fighter. 

"  I  can't  think  how  she  could  have  forgotten  me!  "  La- 
[108] 


THE   FLOWER   OF   SPAIN 

vinia  declared  with  increasing  annoyance.  "  It's  clear 
that  they  have  all  gone." 

"  Don't  agitate  yourself,"  Cesare  Orsi  begged.  "  San- 
viano  will  be  absolutely  contented  to  have  you  in  my  care. 
I  am  delighted.  You  shall  go  home  directly  in  my  car 
riage."  He  conducted  her,  with  a  show  of  form  that  in 
any  one  else  or  at  another  time  she  would  have  enjoyed 
hugely,  to  the  street,  where  he  handed  her  into  an  im 
maculately  glossy  and  corded  victoria,  drawn  by  a  big 
stamping  bay,  and  stood  with  his  hat  off  until  she  had 
rolled  away. 

It  was  comfortable  in  the  luxuriously  upholstered  seat 
and,  in  spite  of  herself,  Lavinia  sank  back  with  a  con 
tented  sigh.  There  was  in  its  case  a  gilt  hand  mirror,  into 
which  she  peered,  and  a  ledge  that  pulled  out,  with  a  crys 
tal  box  for  cigarettes  and  a  spirit  lighter.  The  Sanvianos 
had  only  a  landaulet,  no  longer  in  its  first  condition;  and 
Lavinia  wondered  why  Gheta,  who  adored  ease,  had  been 
so  long  in  securing  for  herself  such  comforts  as  Orsi's 
victoria. 

They  swept  smoothly  on  rubber  tires  into  the  Lungarno 
and  rapidly  approached  her  home.  The  carriage  stopped 
before  the  familiar  white  facade,  built  of  marble  in  the 
pseudo-severity  of  the  early  nineteenth  century,  and  the 
porter  swung  open  the  great  iron  gate  to  the  courtyard. 
Lavinia  mounted  the  square  white  shaft  of  the  stairs  to 
the  Sanvianos'  floor  with  a  deepining  sense  of  injury. 
She  would  make  it  plain  to  Gheta  that  she  was  no  longer 
a  child  to  be  casually  overlooked. 

A  small  room,  used  in  connection  with  the  dining  room 
for  coffee  and  smoking,  gave  directly  on  the  hall;  there 
[109] 


THE   HAPPY    END 

she  saw  her  father  sitting,  with  his  hat  still  on,  his  face 
stamped  with  an  almost  comical  dismay,  and  holding  an 
unlighted  cigar. 

"  Gheta  left  me  at  the  Guarinis',"  Lavinia  halted 
impetuously.  "  If  it  hadn't  been  for  Signor  Orsi  I 
shouldn't  be  here  yet;  I  was  completely  ignored." 

"Heavens!"  her  father  exclaimed,  waving  her  away. 
"Another  feminine  catastrophe!  Go  to  your  sister  and 
mother.  My  head  is  in  a  whirl." 

Her  mother,  then,  had  returned.  She  went  forward 
and  was  suddenly  startled  by  hearing  Gheta's  voice  rise 
in  a  wail  of  despairing  misery.  She  hurried  forward  to 
her  sister's  room.  Gheta,  fully  dressed,  was  prostrate, 
face  down,  upon  her  bed,  shaken  by  a  strangled  sobbing 
that  at  intervals  rose  to  a  thin  hysterical  scream.  The 
Marchesa  Sanviano,  still  in  her  traveling  suit  and  close- 
fitting  black  hat,  sat  by  her  elder  daughter's  side,  trying 
vainly  to  calm  the  tumult.  In  the  background  the  maid, 
her  face  streaming  with  sympathetic  tears,  was  hovering 
distractedly  with  a  jar  of  volatile  salts. 

"  Mamma,"  Lavinia  demanded,  torn  by  extravagant 
fears,  "  what  has  happened?  " 

The  marchesa  momentarily  turned  a  concerned  counte 
nance. 

"  Your  sister,"  she  said  seriously,  "  has  found  some 
wrinkles  on  her  forehead." 

Lavinia  with  difficulty  restrained  a  sharp  giggle. 
Gheta's  grief  and  their  mother's  anxiety  at  first  seemed 
so  foolishly  disproportionate  to  their  cause.  Then  a  real 
ization  of  what  such  an  occurrence  meant  to  Gheta  dawned 

[110] 


THE   FLOWER   OF   SPAIN 

upon  her.  To  an  acknowledged  beauty  like  Gheta  San- 
viano  the  marks  of  Time  were  an  absolute  tragedy;  they 
threatened  her  on  every  plane  of  her  being. 

"  But  when "  Lavinia  began. 

"  They  —  Anna  Mantegazza  and  she  —  went  to  the 
dressing  room  at  the  Guarinis',  where,  it  seems,  Anna  dis 
covered  them  —  sympathetically,  of  course." 

Gheta's  sobbing  slowly  subsided  under  the  marchesa's 
urgent  plea  that  unrestrained  emotion  would  only  deepen 
her  trouble.  She  did  not  appear  at  dinner;  and  afterward 
the  marchese,  his  wife  and  Lavinia  sat  wrapped  in  a 
gloomy  silence.  The  marchesa  was  still  handsome,  in 
spite  of  increasing  weight.  The  gray  gaze  inherited  by 
Lavinia  had  escaped  the  parent;  her  eyes  were  soft  and 
rUncA  nicp  brown  velvet.  She  was  a  woman  of  decision 
and  now  she  brought  her  hands  smartly  together. 

u  We  have  waited  too  long  with  Gheta :  we  should  not 
hate  counted  so  conndentlv  on  her  beauty,  time  fljV- 
.erotisly.     She  must  marry  as  i 

M  Thank  God,  there's  Cesare  Orsi  i  "  her  husband  re 
sponded. 

Lavinia  was  gazing  inward  at  the  secretly  enshrined 
image  of  the  Flower  of  Spain. 

Ill 

Gheta  Sanviano  often  passed  a  night  at  the  Mante- 
gazzas'  villa  on  the  Height  of  Castena,  a  long  mile  from 
the  city. 

Lavinia,  too,  knew  the  dwelling  well,  for  Sanviano  and 
Pier  Mantegazza  had  been  intimate  from  their  similar 


THE    HAPPY    END 

beginnings,  and  she  had  played  there  as  a  child.  How 
ever,  she  had  never  been  regularly  asked  with  Gheta;  and 
when  that  occurred  —  Gheta  indifferently  delivered  Anna 
Mantegazza's  message  —  and  her  mother  acquiesced,  La- 
vinia  had  a  renewed  sense  of  her  growing  importance. 

She  went  out  early,  in  the  heat  of  midday,  a  time  that 
fitted  best  with  the  involved  schedule  of  the  Sanvianos' 
single  equipage  —  Anna  would  take  her  sister  directly 
from  a  luncheon  at  the  Ginoris'.  Lavinia  looked  with 
mingled  anticipation  and  relief  at  the  approaching  grace 
ful  fagade  added  scarcely  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  before 
to  the  otherwise  somber  abode  of  the  Mantegazzas,  first 
established  in  the  twelfth  century. 

The  villa  stood  on  an  eminence,  circled  by  austere  pines, 
and  terraced  with  innumerable  vegetable  gardens  and 
frugally  planted  olives.  The  road  mounted  abruptly, 
turned  under  a  frowning  wall  incongruously  topped  with 
delicately  painted  urns,  and  doubled  across  the  massive 
iron-bound  door  that  closed  the  arched  entrance.  Within, 
an  immensely  high  timbered  hall  was  pleasantly  cool  and 
dark  after  the  white  blaze  without.  It  was  bare  of  fur 
nishing  except  for  a  number  of  rude  oak  settles  against 
the  naked  stone  walls.  It  had  been  a  place  of  fear  to 
Lavinia  when  a  child;  and  even  now  she  left  it  with  a 
sense  of  relief  for  the  modernized  interior  beyond. 

Pier  Mantegazza  was  standing  before  a  high  inclined 
table,  which  bore  a  number  of  blackened  and  shapeless 
medallions.  He  was  a  famous  numismatic  —  a  tall 
stooping  man,  slightly  lame,  and  enveloped  in  a  premature 
gray  ill  health  that  resembled  clinging  cobwebs.  He  bent 
and  brushed  Lavinia's  forehead  with  his  crisp  mustache, 

[112] 


THE   FLOWER   OF   SPAIN 

and  then  returned  to  the  delicate  manipulation  of  a  mag 
nifying  glass  and  a  small  blue  bottle  of  acid.  She  left 
him  for  a  deep  chair  and  a  surprising  French  romance  by 
Remy  de  Gourmont.  At  a  long  philosophical  dialogue 
the  book  drooped,  and  she  thought  of  Anna  Mantegazza 
and  her  husband. 

She  wondered  whether  they  were  happy.  But  she  de 
cided,  measuring  that  condition  solely  by  her  own  require 
ment,  that  such  a  state  was  impossible  for  them.  It  had 
certainly  been  a  marriage  for  money  and  position;  prior 
to  the  ceremony  the  Casa  Mantegazza  had  been  closed  for 
years,  and  Pier  Mantegazza  occupied  a  small  establish 
ment  near  the  Military  Hospital,  on  the  Via  San  Gallo. 
Anna  Cane  had  arrived  in  Rome,  without  family  or 
credentials,  and  unknown  to  the  American  Embassy  other 
than  by  amazing  deposits  at  the  best  banks.  But  she  did 
have,  in  addition  to  this,  a  pungent  charm  and  undeniable 
force  and  good  taste.  It  was  said  that  the  moment  she 
had  seen  Mantegazza's  villa  she  had  decided  to  possess  it, 
even  at  the  price  of  its  sere  withdrawn  holder. 

She  had  gone  at  once  into  the  best  Florentine  and 
Roman  society.  That  was  ten  years  before,  but  Lavinia 
realized  that  she  had  never  successfully  assimilated  the 
Italian  social  formula.  She  mixed  the  most  diverse  ele 
ments  of  their  world  willfully  and  found  enjoyment  in 
bringing  about  amusing  situations.  She  seemed  devoid  of 
the  foundations  of  proper  caution;  in  fact,  she  mocked  at 
them  openly.  And  if  she  had  not  been  a  model  Catholic, 
and  herself  above  the  slightest  moral  question,  even  Mante 
gazza  could  not  have  carried  her  among  his  own  circles. 
As  it  was,  people  flocked  to  her  elaborate  parties,  torn  be- 

[113] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

tween  the  hope  of  being  amazed  and  the  fear  that  they 
should  furnish  the  hub  of  the  occasion. 

Gheta  and  her  hostess  arrived  later.  The  former,  it 
appeared  to  Lavinia,  looked  disconcerted;  and  it  was  evi 
dent  that  she  had  been  remonstrating  with  Anna  Mante- 
gazza.  The  other  laughed  provokingly. 

"  Nonsense!  "  she  declared.  "  It  was  too  good  to  miss; 
besides,  you're  an  old  campaigner." 

A  stair  of  flagging,  turning  sharply  round  a  stone  pillar, 
led  incongruously  from  the  light  French  furnishings  to 
the  chamber  where  Lavinia  was  to  sleep.  A  Renaissance 
bed,  made  of  thick  quilting  directly  upon  the  floor,  was 
covered  with  gilt  ecclesiastical  embroidery;  and  a  movable 
tub  stood  in  a  stone  corner.  The  narrow  deep  windows 
overlooked  Florence,  a  somber  expanse  of  roofing;  and, 
coming  rapidly  toward  the  villa,  Lavinia  could  see  a  tall 
dogcart,  with  a  groom  and  two  passengers.  They  were 
men;  and,  as  they  drew  nearer,  Lavinia  —  with  a  sudden 
pounding  of  her  heart  —  realized  the  cause  of  the  slight 
friction  between  the  two  women.  The  cart  bore  Cesare 
Orsi,  and  Mochales  the  bull-fighter,  the  Flower  of  Spain. 
It  was  a  part  of  Anna  Mantegazza's  humor  that  the  men, 
so  essentially  antagonistic,  should  arrive  together  clinging 
precariously  on  the  high  insecure  trap. 

Tea  was  served  at  five  on  the  terrace,  and  Lavinia 
dressed  with  minute  care.  Gheta,  she  knew,  had  brought 
a  new  lavender  lawn  with  little  gold  velvet  buttons  and 
lace;  while  she  had  nothing  but  the  familiar  coarse  white 
mull.  But  she  had  fresh  ribbons  and  she  gazed  with 
satisfaction  at  her  firm,  faintly  rosy  countenance.  She 
would  have  no  wrinkles  for  years  to  come.  However,  she 
[114] 


THE    FLOWER   OF   SPAIN 

thought,  with  a  return  to  her  sense  of  tragic  gloom,  such 
considerations  were  of  little  moment,  as  Abrego  y  Mochales 
would  scarcely  be  aware  of  her  existence;  he  would 
never  know.  .  .  .  Perhaps,  years  after 

She  purposely  delayed  her  appearance  on  the  terrace 
until  the  others  had  assembled,  and  then  quietly  took  pos 
session  of  a  chair.  Cesare  Orsi  greeted  her  with  effusive 
warmth,  the  Spaniard  bowed  ceremoniously.  A  wide 
prospect  of  countryside  flowed  away  in  innumerable  hills 
and  valleys,  clothed  in  the  silvery  smoke  of  olives  and 
in  green-black  pines;  below,  a  bank  of  cherry  trees  were  in 
bloom.  The  air  was  sweet  and  still  and  full  of  a  warm 
radiance. 

Lavinia  luxuriated  in  her  unhappiness.  Mochales,  she 
decided,  must  be  the  handsomest  man  in  existence.  His 
unchanging  gravity  fascinated  her  —  the  man's  face,  his 
voice,  his  dignified  gestures,  were  all  steeped  in  a  splendid 
melancholy. 

"  I  am  a  peasant,"  he  said,  apparently  addressing  them 
all,  but  with  his  eyes  upon  Gheta,  "  from  Estremadura,  in 
the  mountains.  The  life  there  was  very  hard,  and  that 
was  fortunate  for  me;  the  food  was  scarce,  and  that  was 
good  too.  If  I  ate  like  the  grandees  a  bull  would  end  me 
in  the  hot  sun  of  the  first  fiesta;  I'd  double  up  like  a  pan 
cake.  I  must  work  all  the  time  —  run  for  miles  and  play 
pelota." 

Lavinia  was  possessed  by  a  new  contempt  for  her  kind, 
which  she  centered  upon  Orsi,  clumsy  and  stupidly  smil 
ing.  It  was  clear  that  he  couldn't  run  a  mile ;  in  fact,  he 
admitted  that  he  detested  all  exercise.  How  absurd  he 
looked  in  his  tight  plaited  jacket!  It  appeared  that  he 

[115] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

was  always  perspiring ;  a  crime,  she  felt  sure  —  with  entire 
disregard  of  its  fatal  consequences  —  that  Mochales  never 
committed. 

"  A  friend  of  ours  —  it  was  Bembo  —  said  that  he  saw 
you  at  San  Sebastian  with  your  King,"  Anna  Mantegazza 
put  in. 

"Why  not?  But  Alphonso  is  a  fine  boy;  he  under 
stands  the  business  of  royalty.  Every  year  I  dedicate  a 
magnificent  bull  to  the  King  on  his  name  day." 

"Will  you  dedicate  one  to  me?"  Gheta  asked  care 
lessly. 

"  The  best  in  Andalusia,"  he  responded  with  fire. 

Cesare  Orsi  made  a  slight  sharp  exclamation,  and 
Lavinia's  heart  beat  painfully.  The  former  turned  to 
her  with  sudden  determination. 

"  Were  you  comfortable  in  my  carriage,"  he  demanded, 
"  and  fetched  home  at  a  smart  pace?  " 

Lavinia  thanked  him. 

"  You  are  always  so  quiet,"  he  complained.  "  I'm  cer 
tain  there's  a  great  deal  in  that  wise  young  head  worth 
hearing." 

"  Lavinia  is  still  in  the  schoolroom,"  Gheta  explained 
brutally.  "  Yesterday  she  put  up  her  hair,  to-day  Anna 
Mantegazza  invites  her,  and  we  have  an  effect." 

Anna  Mantegazza  turned  to  the  younger  with  a  new 
veiled  scrutiny.  Her  gaze  rested  for  an  instant  on  Orsi 
and  then  moved  contemplatively  to  Gheta  and  Abrego  y 
Mochales.  It  was  evident  that  her  thoughts  were  very 
busy ;  a  faint  sparkle  appeared  in  her  eyes,  a  fresh  vivacity 
animated  her  manner.  Suddenly  she  included  Lavinia  in 
her  remarks;  she  put  queries  to  the  girl  patently  intended 

[116] 


THE   FLOWER   OF   SPAIN 

to  draw  her  out.     Gheta  grew  uneasy  and  then  cross. 

"I'm  sick  of  sitting  here,"  she  declared;  "let's  walk 
about.  It's  cooler,  and  Pier  Mantegazza's  place  is  always 
worth  investigation."  She  rose  and  waited  for  Cesare 
Orsi,  then  led  the  small  procession  from  under  the  striped 
tea  kiosk  down  the  terrace.  The  way  grew  steep  and  she 
rested  a  hand  on  Orsi's  arm.  Anna,  Lavinia  and  the 
Flower  of  Spain  followed  together,  until  the  first  moved 
forward  to  join  the  leaders.  Lavinia's  gaze  was  obscured 
by  a  sort  of  warm  mist;  she  clasped  her  hands  to  keep 
them  from  trembling.  In  a  narrow  flagged  turn  Mochales 
brushed  her  shoulder.  He  scarcely  moved  his  eyes  from 
Gheta's  back.  Once  he  gazed  somberly  at  the  girl  beside 
him  and  she  responded  with  a  pale  questioning  smile.  "  I 
have  had  a  great  misfortune,"  he  told  her. 

"  Oh,  I'm  terribly,  terribly  sorry!  " 

"I've  lost  a  blessed  coin  that  interceded  for  me  since 
the  first  day  I  went  in  the  bull  ring.  I'd  give  a  thousand 
wax  candles  for  its  return.  Now  —  when  I  need  every 
thing,"  he  continued  as  if  to  himself.  "  Your  sister  is 
beautiful,"  he  added  abruptly. 

"  Everybody  thinks  so,"  Lavinia  replied  in  a  voice  she 
endeavored  to  make  enthusiastic.  "  She  has  had  tens  of 
admirers  here  and  at  Rome  and  Lucca."  There  she  knew 
she  should  stop ;  but  she  continued :  "  Cesare  Orsi  is  very 
persistent  and  tremendously  rich." 

Mochales  made  a  short  unintelligible  remark  in  Span 
ish.  He  twisted  a  cigarette  with  lightning-like  rapidity 
and  only  one  hand.  Together  they  looked  at  Orsi's  broad 
ungainly  back,  and  the  bull-fighter's  lips  tightened,  ex 
posing  a  glimmer  of  his  immaculate  teeth, 

[117] 


THE   HAPPY    END 

They  passed  a  neat  whitewashed  cottage,  where  an  old 
couple  stood  bowing  abjectly,  and  came  on  a  series  of  long 
pale-brown  buildings  and  walls. 

"  The  stables  and  barn,"  Lavinia  explained. 

Anna  Mantegazza  turned. 

"  You  may  see  something  of  interest  here,"  she  called  to 
Mochales. 

A  series  of  steps,  made  by  projecting  stones,  rose  to  the 
top  of  an  eight-foot  wall,  up  which  Anna  unexpectedly  led 
the  way.  The  wall  was  broad,  afforded  a  comfortable 
footing,  and  enclosed  a  straw-littered  yard.  A  number  of 
doors  led  into  a  barn,  and  into  one  some  men  were  urging 
refractory  cattle.  In  a  corner  a  small  compact  bull,  with 
the  rapierlike  horns  of  the  mountain  breeds,  was  secured 
by  a  nose  ring  and  a  short  chain ;  and  to  the  latter  the  men 
turned  when  the  other  animals  had  been  confined.  Two 
threatened  the  animal  with  long  poles,  while  a  third  un 
fastened  the  chain  from  the  wall ;  and  then  all  endeavored 
to  drive  him  within.  Abrego  y  Mochales  stood  easily 
above,  watching  these  clumsy  efforts. 

Suddenly  the  bull  stopped,  plunged  his  front  hoofs  into 
the  soft  mold  of  the  stable  yard  and  swept  his  head  from 
side  to  side  with  a  broken  hoarse  bellow.  The  men 
prodded  him  with  urgent  cries;  but  the  bull  suddenly 
whirled,  snapping  the  poles,  and  there  was  an  immediate 
scattering. 

The  sight  of  the  retreating  forms  apparently  enraged  the 
animal,  for  he  charged  with  astonishing  speed  and  barely 
missed  horning  the  last  man  to  fall  over  the  barricade  of  a 
half  door.  Mochales  smiled;  he  called  familiarly  to  the 
bull.  Then  he  stooped  and  vaulted  lightly  down  into  the 

[118] 


THE   FLOWER   OF   SPAIN 

yard.  Lavinia  gave  a  short  exclamation;  she  was  cold 
with  fear.  Orsi  looked  on  without  any  emotion  visible  on 
his  heavy  face.  Anna  Mantegazza  leaned  forward,  tense 
with  interest.  "  Bravo!  "  she  called. 

Gheta  Sanviano  smiled. 

The  bull  did  not  see  Mochales  at  first,  then  the  man 
cried  tauntingly.  The  bull  turned  and  stood  with  a  low 
ered  slowly-moving  head,  an  uneasy  tail.  The  Spaniard 
found  a  small  milking  stool  and,  carrying  it  to  the  middle 
of  the  yard,  sat  and  comfortably  rolled  another  cigarette. 
He  was  searching  for  a  match  when  the  bull  moved  for 
ward  a  pace;  he  had  found  and  was  striking  it  when  the 
bull  increased  his  pace;  he  was  guarding  the  flame  about 
the  cigarette's  end  when  the  animal  broke  into  a  charging 
run. 

The  Flower  of  Spain  inhaled  a  deep  breath  of  smoke, 
which  he  expelled  in  deliberate  globes. 

"  Oh,  don't!  Oh "  Lavinia  exclaimed,  an  arm  be 
fore  her  eyes. 

Mochales  shifted  easily  from  his  seat  and  apparently 
in  the  same  instant  the  bull  crushed  the  stool  to  splinters. 

"  Bravo!  Bravo!  "  Anna  Mantegazza  called  again,  and 
the  man  bowed  until  his  extended  hat  rested  on  the  ground. 

He  straightened  slowly;  the  bull  whirled  about  and 
flung  himself  forward.  Abrego  y  Mochales  now  had  one 
of  the  discarded  poles;  and,  waiting  until  the  horns  had 
almost  encircled  him,  he  vaulted  lightly  and  beautifully 
over  the  running  animal's  shoulder.  He  waited  again, 
avoiding  the  infuriated  charge  by  a  scant  step;  and,  when 
the  bull  stopped  he  had  Mochales'  hat  placed  squarely 
upon  his  horns. 

[119] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

Lavinia  watched  now  in  fascinated  terror;  she  could 
not  remove  her  gaze  from  the  slim  figure  in  the  short 
black  jacket  and  narrow  crimson  sash.  At  the  moment 
when  her  tension  relaxed,  Mochales,  with  a  short  running 
step,  vaulted  cleanly  to  the  top  of  the  wall.  His  cigarette 
was  still  burning.  She  wanted  desperately  to  add  her 
praise  to  Anna  Mantegazza's  enthusiastic  plaudits,  Gheta's 
subtle  smile;  but  only  the  utmost  banalities  occurred  to 
her. 

They  descended  the  stone  steps  and  slowly  mounted 
toward  the  house.  Cesare  Orsi  resolutely  dropped  back 
beside  Lavinia. 

"  You  are  really  superb !  "  he  told  her  in  his  highly  col 
ored  Neapolitan  manner.  "  Most  women  —  Anna  Mante- 
gazza  for  example  —  are  like  children  before  such  a  show 
as  that  back  there.  Your  sister,  too,  was  pleased;  it  ap 
pealed  to  her  vanity,  as  the  fellow  intended  it  should.  But 
you  only  disliked  it.  ...  I  could  see  that  in  your  atti 
tude.  It  was  the  circus  —  that's  all." 

Lavinia  gazed  at  him  out  of  an  unfathomable  contempt. 
She  thought:  What  a  fool  he  is!  It  wasn't  Abrego  y 
Mochales'  courage  that  appealed  to  her  most,  although 
that  had  afforded  her  an  exquisite  thrill,  but  his  powerful 
grace,  his  absolute  physical  perfection.  Orsi  was  heated 
again  and  his  tie  had  slipped  up  over  the  back  of  his 
collar. 

She  recalled  the  first  talk  she  had  had  with  him  about 
Mochales  and  the  manner  in  which  she  had  masked  her 
true  feeling  for  the  latter. 

How  easy  Orsi  had  been  to  mislead!  Now  she  was 
seized  by  the  desire  to  show  him  the  actual  state  of  her 

[120] 


THE    FLOWER    OF    SPAIN 

mind;  she  wanted,  in  bitter  sentences,  to  tell  him  how  in 
finitely  superior  the  Spaniard  was  to  such  fat  easy  grubs 
as  himself.  She  longed  to  make  clear  to  him  exactly 
what  it  was  that  women  admired  in  men  —  romance  and 
daring  and  splendid  strength.  It  might  suit  Gheta,  who 
had  wrinkles,  to  encourage  such  men  as  Cesare  Orsi;  their 
wealth  might  appeal  to  cold  and  material  minds,  but  they 
could  never  hope  to  inspire  passion;  no  one  would  ever 
cherish  for  them  a  hopeless  lifelong  love. 

"  Do  you  know,"  Orsi  declared  with  firm  conviction, 
"  you  are  even  handsomer  than  your  sister !  " 

"  Fool !  fool !  fool !  "  But  she  could  not,  of  course,  say 
a  word  of  what  was  in  her  thoughts.  She  met  his  admir 
ing  gaze  with  a  blank  face,  conscious  of  how  utterly  her 
exterior  belied  and  hid  the  actual  Lavinia  Sanviano.  She 
felt  wearily  old,  sophisticated.  In  her  room,  dressing  for 
the  evening,  she  made  up  her  mind  that  she  must  have  a 
black  dinner  gown  —  later  she  would  wear  no  other  shade. 

IV 

Anna  Mantegazza  knocked  and  entered  just  as  Lavinia 
had  finished  with  her  hair  and  was  slipping  into  the 
familiar  white  dress.  There  had  been,  within  the  last  few 
hours,  a  perceptible  change  in  the  former's  attitude  toward 
her.  Lavinia  realized  that  Anna  Mantegazza  regarded 
her  with  a  new  interest,  a  greater  and  more  personal 
friendliness. 

"  My  dear  Lavinia !  "  she  exclaimed,  critically  over 
looking  the  other's  preparations.  "  You  look  very  appeal 
ing —  like  a  snowdrop;  exactly.  I  should  say  the  toilet 
[121] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

for  Sunday  at  the  convent;  but  no  longer  appropriate  out 
side.  Really,  I  must  speak  to  the  marchesa  —  parents  are 
so  slow  to  see  the  differences  in  their  own  family.  Gheta 
has  been  a  little  overemphasized. 

"  I  wonder,"  she  continued  with  glowing  vivacity,  "  if 
you  would  allow  me  —  I  assure  you  it  would  give  me  the 
greatest  pleasure  in  the  world.  .  .  .  Your  figure  is  a  thou 
sand  times  better  than  mine;  but,  thank  heaven,  I'm  still 
slender.  ...  A  little  evening  dress  from  Vienna!  It 
should  really  do  you  very  well.  Will  you  accept  it  from 
me?  I'd  like  to  give  you  something,  Lavinia;  and  it  has 
never  been  out  of  its  box." 

She  turned  and  was  out  of  the  room  before  Lavinia 
could  reply.  There  was  no  reason  why  she  shouldn't 
take  a  present  from  Anna  —  Pier  Mantegazza  and  her 
father  had  been  lifelong  friends,  and  his  wife  was  an  inti 
mate  of  the  Sanvianos.  It  would  not,  probably,  be  black. 
It  wasn't.  Anna  returned,  followed  by  her  maid,  who 
bore  carefully  over  her  arm  a  shimmering  mass  of  glow 
ing  pink. 

"Now!"  Anna  Mantegazza  cried.  "Your  hair  is 
very  pretty,  very  original  —  but  hardly  for  a  dress  by 
Verlat.  Sara!" 

The  maid  moved  quietly  forward  and  directed  an  ap 
praising  gaze  at  Lavinia.  She  was  a  flat-hipped  English 
woman,  with  a  cleft  chin  and  enigmatic  greenish  eyes. 

"  I  see  exactly,  madame,"  she  assured  Anna;  and  with 
her  deft  dry  hands  she  took  down  Lavinia's  laboriously 
arranged  hair. 

She  drew  it  back  from  the  brow  apparently  as  simply 
as  before,  twisted  it  into  a  low  knot  slightly  eccentric  in 

[122] 


THE    FLOWER   OF   SPAIN 

shape,  and  recut  a  bang.  Lavinia's  eyes  seemed  bluer, 
her  delicate  flush  more  elusive;  the  shape  of  her  face  ap 
peared  changed,  it  was  more  pointed  and  had  a  new  will 
ful  charm. 

"  The  stockings,"  Anna  commanded. 

Dressed,  Lavinia  Sanviano  stood  curiously  before  the 
long  mirror;  she  saw  a  fresh  Lavinia  that  was  yet  the  old; 
and  she  was  absorbing  her  first  great  lesson  in  the  magic 
of  clothes.  Verlat,  a  celebrated  dressmaker,  was  typical 
of  the  Viennese  spirit  —  the  gown  Lavinia  wore  resembled, 
in  all  its  implications,  an  orchid.  There  was  a  whisper 
here  of  satin,  a  pale  note  of  green,  a  promise  of  chiffon. 
Her  crisp  round  shoulders  were  bare;  her  finely  molded 
arms  were  clouded,  as  it  were,  with  a  pink  mist ;  the  skirt 
was  full,  incredibly  airy;  yet  every  movement  was  draped 
by  a  suave  flowing  and  swaying. 

Lavinia  recognized  that  she  had  been  immensely  en 
riched  in  effect;  it  was  not  a  question  of  mere  beauty  — 
beauty  here  gave  way  to  a  more  subtle  and  potent  con 
sideration.  It  was  a  potency  which  she  instinctively 
shrank  from  probing.  For  a  moment  she  experienced, 
curiously  enough,  a  gust  of  passionate  resentment,  followed 
by  a  quickly  passing  melancholy,  a  faint  regret. 

Anna  Mantegazza  and  the  maid  radiated  with  satis 
faction  at  the  result  of  their  efforts.  The  former  mur 
mured  a  phrase  that  bore  Gheta's  name,  but  Lavinia 
caught  nothing  else.  The  maid  said: 

"  Without  a  doubt,  madame." 

Lavinia  lingered  in  her  room,  strangely  reluctant  to  go 
down  and  see  her  sister.  She  was  embarrassed  by  her 
unusual  appearance  and  dreaded  the  prominence  of  the 

[123] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

inevitable  exclamations.  At  last  she  was  obliged  to  pro 
ceed.  The  rest  stood  by  the  entrance  of  the  dining  room. 
Anna  Mantegazza  was  laughing  at  a  puzzled  expression 
on  the  good-natured  countenance  of  Cesare  Orsi;  Gheta 
was  slowly  waving  a  fan  of  gilded  feathers;  Abrego  y 
Mochales  was  standing  rigid  and  somberly  handsome; 
and,  as  usual,  Pier  Mantegazza  was  late. 

Gheta  Sanviano  turned  and  saw  Lavinia  approaching, 
and  the  elder's  face,  always  pale,  grew  suddenly  chalky; 
it  was  drawn,  and  the  wrinkles,  carefully  treated  with 
paste,  became  visible  about  her  eyes.  Her  hands  shook 
a  little  as  she  took  a  step  forward. 

"What  does  this  mean,  Lavinia?"  she  demanded. 
"  Why  did  I  know  nothing  about  that  dress?  " 

"  I  knew  nothing  myself  until  a  little  bit  ago,"  Lavinia 
explained  apologetically,  filled  with  a  formless  pity  for 
Gheta.  "  Isn't  it  pretty?  Anna  Mantegazza  gave  it  to 
me." 

She  could  see,  over  Gheta's  shoulder,  Cesare  Orsi  star 
ing  at  her  in  idiotic  surprise. 

"  Don't  you  like  it,  Gheta?  "  Anna  asked. 

Gheta  Sanviano  didn't  answer,  but  closed  her  eyes  for  a 
moment  in  an  effort  to  control  the  anger  that  shone  in 
them.  The  silence  deepened  to  constraint,  and  then  she 
laughed  lightly. 

"  Quite  a  woman  of  fashion!  "  she  observed  of  Lavinia. 
"  Fancy !  It's  a  pity  that  she  must  go  back  to  the  convent 
so  soon." 

Her  eyes  while  she  was  speaking  were  directed  toward 
Anna  Mantegazza  and  the  resentment  changed  to  hatred. 
The  other  shrugged  her  shoulders  indifferently  and  moved 

[124] 


THE    FLOWER    OF    SPAIN 

toward  the  dining  room,  catching  Lavinia's  arm  in  her 
own. 

Mantegazza  entered  at  the  soup  and  was  seated  on 
Gheta's  right;  Cesare  Orsi  was  on  Anna's  left;  and  La- 
vinia  sat  between  the  two  men,  with  Mochales  opposite. 
Whatever  change  had  taken  place  in  her  looks  made 
absolutely  no  impression  upon  the  latter;  it  was  clear  that 
he  saw  no  one  besides  Gheta  Sanviano. 

In  the  candlelight  his  face  more  than  ever  resembled 
bronze;  his  hair  was  dead-black;  above  the  white  linen 
his  head  was  like  a  superb  effigy  of  an  earlier  and  differ 
ent  race  from  the  others.  It  was  almost  savage  in  its  still 
austerity.  Cesare  Orsi,  too,  said  little,  which  was  extraor 
dinary  for  him.  If  Lavinia  had  made  small  mark  on 
Mochales,  at  least  she  had  overpowered  the  other  to  a 
ludicrous  degree.  It  seemed  that  he  had  never  before 
half  observed  her;  he  even  muttered  to  himself  and 
smiled  uncertainly  when  she  chanced  to  gaze  at  him. 

But  what  the  others  lacked  conversationally  Anna  Man 
tegazza  more  than  supplied;  she  was  at  her  best,  and  that 
was  very  sparkling,  touched  with  malice  and  understand 
ing,  and  absolute  independence.  She  insisted  on  including 
Lavinia  in  every  issue.  At  first  Lavinia  was  only  confused 
by  the  attention  pressed  on  her;  she  retreated,  growing 
more  inarticulate  at  every  sally.  Then  she  became  easier; 
spurred  partly  by  Gheta's  direct  unpleasantness  and  partly 
by  the  consciousness  of  her  becoming  appearance,  she  re 
torted  with  spirit;  engaged  Pier  Mantegazza  in  a  duet  of 
verbal  confetti.  She  gazed  challengingly  at  Abrego  y 
Mochales,  but  got  no  other  answer  than  a  grave  perfunc 
tory  inclination. 

[125] 


THE  HAPPY  END 

She  thought  of  an  alternative  to  the  black  gowns  and 
unrelieved  melancholy  —  she  might  become  the  gayest 
member  of  the  gay  Roman  world,  be  known  throughout 
Italy  for  her  reckless  exploits,  her  affairs  and  Vienna 
gowns,  all  the  while  hiding  her  passion  for  the  Flower  of 
Spain.  It  would  be  a  vain  search  for  forgetfulness,  with 
an  early  death  in  an  atmosphere  of  roses  and  champagne. 
Gheta  was  gazing  at  her  so  crossly  that  she  took  a  sip 
of  Mantegazza's  brandy;  it  burned  her  throat  cruelly,  but 
she  concealed  the  choking  with  a  smile  of  high  bravado. 

After  dinner  they  progressed  to  a  drawing-room  that 
filled  an  entire  end  of  the  villa;  it  lay  three  steps  below 
the  hall,  the  imposing  walls  and  floor  covered  with  tap 
estries  and  richly  dark  rugs.  Lavinia  more  than  ever 
resembled  an  orchid,  here  in  a  gloom  of  towering  trees 
curiously  suggested  by  the  draperies  and  space.  She  went 
forward  with  Anna  Mantegazza  to  an  amber  blur  of  lamp 
light,  the  others  following  irregularly. 

Cesare  Orsi  sat  at  Lavinia's  side,  quickly  finishing  one 
long  black  cigar  and  lighting  another;  Pier  Mantegazza 
and  Mochales  smoked  cigarettes.  Anna  was  smoking,  but 
Gheta  had  refused.  Lavinia's  feeling  for  her  sister  had 
changed  from  pity  to  total  indifference.  The  elder  had 
been  an  overbearing  and  thoughtless  superior;  and  now, 
when  Lavinia  felt  in  some  subtle  inexplicable  manner 
that  Gheta  was  losing  rank,  her  store  of  sympathy  was 
small.  Lavinia  hoped  that  she  would  marry  Orsi  imme 
diately  and  leave  the  field  free  for  herself.  She  won 
dered  whether  her  father  would  buy  her  a  dress  by  Verlat. 

"Honestly,"    Orsi    murmured,     "more    beautiful    than 

your " 

[126] 


THE   FLOWER   OF   SPAIN 

She  stopped  him  with  an  impatient  gesture,  wondering 
what  Mochales  was  saying  to  Gheta.  A  possibility  sud 
denly  filled  her  with  dread  —  it  was  evident  that  the  Span 
iard  was  growing  hourly  more  absorbed  in  Gheta,  and  the 

latter  might Lavinia  could  not  support  the  possibility 

of  Abrego  y  Mochales  married  to  her  sister.  But,  she  re 
assured  herself,  there  was  little  danger  of  that  —  Gheta 
would  never  make  a  sacrifice  for  emotion;  she  would  be 
sure  of  the  comfortable  material  thing,  and  now  more 
than  ever. 

Anna  Mantegazza  moved  to  a  piano,  which,  in  the  ob 
scurity,  she  began  to  play.  The  notes  rose  deliberate 
and  melodious.  Gheta  Sanviano  told  Orsi: 

"  That's  Iris.  Do  you  remember,  we  heard  it  at  the 
Pergola  in  the  winter?  " 

"  Do  go  over  to  her,"  Lavinia  whispered. 

He  rose  heavily  and  went  to  Gheta's  side,  and  Lavinia 
waited  expectantly  for  Mochales  to  change  too.  The  Span 
iard  shifted,  but  it  was  toward  the  piano,  where  he  stood 
with  the  rosy  reflection  of  his  cigarette  on  a  moody  coun 
tenance.  It  was  Pier  Mantegazza  who  sat  beside  her, 
with  a  quizzical  expression  on  his  long  gray  visage.  He 
said  something  to  her  in  Latin,  which  she  only  partly 
understood,  but  which  alluded  to  the  changing  of  water 
into  wine. 

"  I  am  a  subject  of  jest,"  he  continued  in  Italian,  "  be 
cause  I  prefer  water." 

She  smiled  with  polite  vacuity,  wondering  what  he 
meant 

"  You  always  satisfied  me,  Lavinia,  with  your  dark 
smooth  plait  and  white  simplicity;  you  were  cool  and  re- 

[127] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

freshing.  Now  they  have  made  you  only  disturbing.  I 
suppose  it  was  inevitable,  and  with  you  the  change  will  be 
temporary." 

"  I'll  never  let  my  hair  down  again,"  she  retorted. 
"  I've  settled  that  with  Gheta.  Mother  didn't  care, 
really." 

She  was  annoyed  by  the  implied  criticism,  his  entire 
lack  of  response  to  her  new  being.  He  had  grown  blind 
staring  at  his  stupid  old  coins. 

A  step  sounded  behind  her;  she  turned  hopefully,  but 
it  was  only  Cesare  Orsi. 

"  The  others  have  gone  outside,"  he  told  her,  and  she 
noticed  that  the  piano  had  stopped. 

Mantegazza  rose  and  bowed  in  mock  serious  formality, 
at  which  Lavinia  shrugged  an  impatient  shoulder  and 
walked  with  Orsi  across  the  room  and  out  upon  the  terrace. 

Florence  had  sunk  into  a  dark  chasm  of  night,  except 
for  the  curving  double  row  of  lights  that  marked  the  Lun- 
garno  and  the  indifferent  illumination  of  a  few  principal 
squares.  The  stars  seemed  big  and  near  in  deep  blue 
space.  Orsi  was  standing  very  close  to  her,  and  she  moved 
away;  but  he  followed. 

"  Lavinia,"  he  muttered,  and  suddenly  his  arm  was 
about  her  waist. 

She  leaned  back,  pushing  with  both  hands  against  his 
chest;  but  he  swept  her  irresistibly  up  to  him  and  kissed 
her  clumsily.  A  cold  rage  possessed  her.  She  stopped 
struggling;  yet  there  was  no  need  to  continue  —  he  re 
leased  her  immediately  and  opened  a  stammering  apology. 

"  I  am  a  madman,"  he  admitted  abjectly  — "  a  little 
animal  that  ought  to  be  shot.  I  don't  know  what  came 

[128] 


THE   FLOWER   OF   SPAIN 

over  me;  my  head  was  in  a  carnival.     You  must  forgive 
or  I  shall  be  a  maniac,  I " 

She  turned  and  walked  swiftly  into  the  house  and 
mounted  to  her  room.  All  the  pleasure  she  had  had  in 
the  evening,  the  Viennese  gown,  evaporated,  left  her  pos 
sessed  by  an  utter  loathing  of  self.  Now,  in  the  mirror, 
she  seemed  hateful,  the  clouded  chiffon  and  airy  cling 
ing  satin  unspeakable.  Looking  back  out  of  the  dim 
glass  was  a  stranger  who  had  betrayed  and  cheapened  her. 
Her  pure  serenity  revolted  against  the  currents  of 
life  sweeping  down  upon  her,  threatening  to  inundate 
her. 

She  unhooked  the  Verlat  gown  with  trembling  fingers 
and  —  once  more  in  simple  white  —  dropped  into  a  deep 
chair,  where  she  cried  with  short  painful  inspirations,  her 
face  pressed  against  her  arm.  Her  emotion  subsided, 
changed  to  a  formless  dread,  and  again  to  a  black  sense 
of  helplessness.  Suddenly  she  rose  and  mechanically 
shook  loose  her  hair  —  footsteps  were  approaching.  Her 
sister  entered,  pale  and  vindictive. 

"  You  are  to  be  congratulated,"  she  proceeded  thinly; 
"  you  made  a  success  with  everybody  —  that  is,  with  all 
but  Mochales.  It  was  for  him,  wasn't  it  ?  You  were  very 
clever,  but  you  failed  ridiculously." 

Lavinia  made  no  reply. 

"  I  hope  Mochales  excuses  you  because  of  your  green 
ness." 

"  Youth  isn't  any  longer  your  crime,"  Lavinia  retorted 
at  last. 

"That  dress  —  it  would  suit  Anna  Mantegazza;  but 
you  looked  only  indecent." 

[129] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

"  Perhaps  you're  right,  Gheta,"  Lavinia  said  unexpect 
edly.  "I'm  going  to  bed  now,  please." 

Her  balance,  restored  by  sleep,  was  once  more  normal 
when  she  returned  to  the  Lungarno.  It  was  again 
late  afternoon,  the  daily  procession  was  returning  from  the 
Cascine,  and  Gheta  was  at  the  window,  looking  coldly 
down.  The  Marchesa  Sanviano  was  knitting  at  pro 
digious  speed  a  shapeless  gray  garment.  They  all  turned 
when  a  servant  entered: 

Signor  Orsi  wished  to  see  the  marchese. 

This  unusual  formality  on  the  part  of  Cesare  Orsi  could 
have  but  one  purpose,  and  Lavinia  and  their  mother  gazed 
significantly  at  the  elder  sister. 

"  The  marchese  is  dressing,"  his  wife  directed. 

She  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief  and  nodded  over  her 
needles.  Gheta  raised  her  chin;  her  lips  bore  the  half- 
contemptuous  expression  that  lately  had  become  habitual; 
her  eyes  were  half  closed. 

Lavinia  sat  with  her  hands  loose  in  her  lap.  She  was 
wondering  whether  or  not,  should  she  make  a  vigorous  pro 
test,  they  would  send  her  back  to  the  convent.  The  Verlat 
gown  was  carefully  hung  in  her  closet.  Last  night  she  had 
been  idiotic. 

The  Marchese  Sanviano  appeared  hurriedly  and  alone ; 
his  tie  was  crooked  and  his  expression  very  much  dis 
turbed.  His  wife  looked  up,  startled. 

"  What !  "  she  demanded  directly.     "  Didn't  he  - 

"  Yes,"  Sanviano  replied,  "  he  did!  He  wants  to  marry 
Lavinia." 

Lavinia  half  rose,  with  a  horrified  protest;  Gheta  seemed 
suddenly  turned  to  stone;  the  knitting  fell  unheeded  from 

[130] 


THE    FLOWER    OF    SPAIN 

the  marchesa's  lap.     Sanviano  spread  out  his  hands  help 
lessly. 

"  Well,"  he  demanded,  "  what  could  I  do?  ...  A  man 
with  Orsi's  blameless  character  and  the  Orsi  banks!  " 


The  house  to  which  Cesare  Orsi  took  Lavinia  was  built 
over  the  rim  of  a  small  steep  island  in  the  Bay  of  Naples, 
opposite  Castellamare.  It  faced  the  city,  rising  in  an 
amphitheater  of  bright  stucco  and  almond  blossoms,  across 
an  expanse  of  glassy  and  incredibly  blue  water.  It  was 
evening,  the  color  of  sky  and  bay  was  darkening,  inten 
sified  by  a  vaporous  rosy  column  where  the  ascending 
smoke  of  Vesuvius  held  the  last  upflung  glow  of  the  van 
ished  sun.  Lavinia  could  see  from  her  window  the  pale 
distant  quiver  of  the  electric  lights  springing  up  along  the 
Villa  Nazionale. 

The  dwelling  itself  drew  a  long  irregular  fagade  of 
white  marble  on  its  abrupt  verdant  screen  —  a  series  of 
connected  pavilions,  galleries,  pergolas,  belvedere,  flower 
ing  walls  and  airy  chambers.  There  were  tesselated  re 
mains  from  the  time  of  the  great  pleasure-saturated  Roman 
emperors,  a  later  distinctly  Moorish  influence,  quattro 
cento-painted  eaves,  an  eighteenth-century  sodded  court, 
and  a  smoking  room  with  the  startling  colored  glass  of  the 
nineteenth. 

The  windows  of  Lavinia's  room  had  no  sashes;  they 
were  composed  of  a  double  marble  arch,  supported  in  the 
center  by  a  slender  twisted  marble  column,  with  Venetian 
blinds.  She  stood  in  the  opening,  gazing  fixedly  over  the 

[131] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

water  turning  into  night.  She.  could  hear,  from  the  room 
beyond,  her  husband's  heavy  deliberate  footfalls;  and 
the  sound  filled  her  with  a  formless  resentment.  She 
wished  to  be  justifiably  annoyed  by  them,  or  him;  but  there 
was  absolutely  no  cause.  Cesare  Orsi's  character  and 
disposition  were  alike  beyond  reproach  —  transparent  and 
heroically  optimistic.  Since  their  marriage  she  had  been 
insolent,  she  had  been  both  captious  and  continuously  in 
different,  without  unsettling  the  determined  eager  good 
nature  with  which  he  met  her  moods. 

During  the  week  he  went  by  launch  into  Naples  in  the 
interests  of  his  banking,  and  did  not  return  for  luncheon; 
and  she  had  long  uninterrupted  hours  for  the  enjoyment  of 
her  pleasant  domain.  Altogether,  his  demands  upon  her 
were  reasonable  to  the  point  of  self-effacement.  He 
laughed  a  great  deal;  this  annoyed  her  youthful  gravity 
and  she  rennunstrated  sharply  more  than  once,  but  he  only 
leaned  back  and  laughed  harder.  Then  she  would  either 
grow  coldly  disdainful  or  leave  the  room,  followed  by  the 
echo  of  his  merriment.  There  was  something  impervious, 
like  armor,  in  his  excellent  humor.  Apparently  she  could 
not  get  through  it  to  wound  him  as  she  would  have  liked; 
and  she  secretly  wondered. 

He  was  prodigal  in  his  generosity  —  the  stores  of  the 
Via  Roma  were  prepared  to  empty  themselves  at  her  de 
sire.  Cesare  Orsi's  wife  was  a  figure  of  importance  in 
Naples.  She  had  been  made  welcome  by  the  Neapolitan 
society  —  lawn  fetes  had  been  given  in  villas  under  the 
burnished  leaves  of  magnolias  on  the  height  of  Vomero. 
The  Cavaliere  Nelli,  Orsi's  cousin  and  a  retired  colonel 
of  Bersaglieri,  entertained  lavishly  at  dinner  on  the  terrace 

[132] 


THE    FLOWER   OF   SPAIN 

of  Bertolini's;  she  went  out  to  old  houses  looking  through 
aged  and  riven  pines  at  the  sea. 

She  would  have  enjoyed  all  this  hugely  if  she  had  not 
been  married  to  Orsi;  but  the  continual  reiteration  of  the 
fact  that  she  was  Orsi's  wife  filled  her  with  an  accumu 
lating  resentment.  The  implication  that  she  had  been  ex 
ceedingly  fortunate  became  more  than  she  could  bear. 
The  consequence  was  that,  as  soon  as  it  could  be  man 
aged,  she  ceased  going  about. 

She  was  now  at  the  window,  immersed  in  a  melancholy 
sense  of  total  isolation;  the  water  stirring  along  the  ma 
sonry  below,  a  call  from  a  shadowy  fishing  boat  dropping 
down  the  bay,  filled  her  with  longing  for  the  cheerful 
existence  of  the  Lungarno.  She  had  had  a  letter  from 
Gheta  that  morning,  the  first  from  her  sister  since  she  had 
left  Florence,  brief  but  without  any  actual  expression  of 
ill  will.  After  all  was  said,  she  had  brought  Gheta  a  great 
disappointment;  if  she  had  been  in  the  elder's  place  prob 
ably  she  would  have  behaved  no  better.  ...  It  occurred 
to  her  to  ask  Gheta  to  Naples.  At  least  then  she  would 
have  some  one  with  whom  to  recall  the  pleasant  trifles  of 
past  years.  She  would  have  liked  to  ask  Anna  Mante- 
gazza,  too;  but  this  she  knew  was  impossible  —  Gheta  had 
not  forgiven  Anna  for  her  part  on  the  night  that  had  re 
sulted  in  Orsi's  proposal  for  Lavinia. 

She  wondered,  more  obscurely,  whether  Abrego  y  Mo- 
chales  was  still  in  Florence.  He  loomed  at  the  back  of 
her  thoughts,  inscrutably  dark  and  romantic.  It  piqued 
her  that  he  had  not  made  the  slightest  response  to  her 
palpable  admiration.  But  he  had  been  tremendously 
stirred  by  Gheta,  who  was  never  touched  by  such  emotions. 

[133] 


THE   HAPPY    END 

A  desire  to  see  Mochales  grew  insidiously  out  of  her  specu 
lations;  a  desire  to  talk  about  him,  hear  his  name. 
Lavinia  deliberately  shut  her  eyes  to  the  fact  that  this 
last  became  her  principal  reason  for  wishing  to  see  Gheta. 

She  told  Cesare,  with  a  diffidence  which  she  was  un 
able  to  overcome,  that  she  had  written  asking  her  sister 
for  a  visit.  Seemingly  he  didn't  hear  her.  They  were 
at  breakfast,  on  the  wine-red  tiling  of  a  pergola  by  the 
water,  and  he  had  shaken  his  fist,  with  a  rueful  curse,  in 
the  direction  of  Naples.  Before  him  lay  an  open  letter 
with  an  engraved  page  heading. 

"  I  said,"  Lavinia  repeated  impatiently,  "  that  Gheta 
will  probably  be  here  the  last  of  the  week." 

"The  sacred  camels!"  Orsi  exclaimed;  then:  "  Oh, 
Gheta  —  good!  "  But  he  fell  immediately  into  an  angry 
reverie.  "  If  I  dared "  he  muttered. 

"  What  has  stirred  you  up  so?  " 

"  It's  difficult  to  explain  to  any  one  not  born  in  Naples. 
Here,  you  see,  all  is  not  in  order,  like  Florence;  we  have 
had  a  stormy  time  between  brigands  and  secret  factions 
and  foreign  rulers;  and  certain  societies  sprang  up,  neces 
sary  once,  but  now  —  when  one  still  exists  —  a  source  of 
bribery  and  nuisance.  This  letter,  for  example,  congratu 
lates  me  on  the  possession  of  a  charming  bride;  it  ex 
presses  the  devotion  of  a  hidden  organization,  but  points 
out  that  in  order  to  guarantee  your  safety  in  a  city  where 
the  guards  are  admittedly  insufficient  it  will  be  necessary 
for  me  to  forward  two  thousand  lire  at  once." 

"  You  will,  of  course,  ignore  it." 

"  I  will  certainly  send  the  money  at  once." 

"What  a  cowardly  attitude!"  Lavinia  declared  con- 
[134] 


THE   FLOWER   OF   SPAIN 

temptuously.     "  You  allow  yourself  to  be  blackmailed  like 
a  common  criminal." 

Orsi  laughed,  his  equilibrium  quickly  restored. 

"  I  warned  you  that  a  stranger  could  not  understand," 
he  reminded  her.  "  If  the  money  weren't  sent,  in  ten  days 
or  two  weeks  perhaps,  there  would  be  a  little  accident  on 
the  Chiaja  —  your  carriage  would  be  run  into;  you  would 
be  upset,  confused,  angry.  There  would  be  profuse  apolo 
gies,  investigation,  perhaps  arrests;  but  nothing  would 
come  of  it.  If  the  money  was  still  held  back  something  a 
little  more  serious  would  occur.  Nothing  really  danger 
ous,  you  understand;  but  finally  the  two  thousand  lire 
would  be  gladly  paid  over  and  the  accidents  would  mys 
teriously  cease." 

"  An  outrage !  "  Lavinia  asserted,  and  Orsi  nodded. 

"  If  you  had  an  enemy,"  he  continued,  "  you  could  have 
her  gown  ruined  in  the  foyer  of  the  San  Carlos ;  if  it  were 
a  man  he  would  be  caught  at  his  club  with  an  uncom 
fortable  ace  in  his  cuff.  At  least  so  I'm  assured.  I 
haven't  had  any  reason  to  look  the  society  up  yet."  He 
laughed  prodigiously.  "  Even  murders  are  ascribed  to  it. 
Careful,  Cesare,  or  a  new  valet  will  cut  your  throat  some 
fine  morning  and  your  widow  walk  away  with  a  more 
graceful  man !  " 

"  Your  jokes  are  so  stupid."  Lavinia  shrugged  her 
shoulders. 

He  laid  the  letter  on  the  table's  edge  and  a  wandering 
air  bore  it  slanting  to  the  floor,  but  he  promptly  re 
covered  it. 

"  That  must  go  in  the  safe,"  he  ended;  "  it  is  well  to 
have  a  slight  grasp  on  those  gentlemen." 

[US] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

He  rose;  and  a  few  minutes  later  Lavinia  saw  his  trim 
brown  launch,  with  its  awning  and  steersman  in  gleaming 
white,  rushing  through  the  bay  toward  Naples. 

/ 
VI 

The  basin  from  which  the  launch  plied  lay  inside  a  sea 
wall  inclosing  a  small  placid  rectangle  with  a  walk  all 
about  and  iron  benches.  Steps  at  the  back,  guarded  by 
two  great  Pompeian  sandstone  urns,  and  pressed  by  a 
luxuriant  growth,  led  up  to  the  villa.  Gheta  looked  curi 
ously  about  as  she  stepped  from  the  launch  and  went  for 
ward  with  her  brother-in-law.  Lavinia  followed,  with 
Gheta 's  maid  and  a  porter  in  the  rear. 

Lavinia  realized  that  her  sister  looked  badly;  in  the 
unsparing  blaze  of  midday  the  wrinkles  about  her  eyes 
were  apparent,  and  they  had  multiplied.  Although  it 
was  past  the  first  of  June,  Gheta  was  wearing  a  linen  suit 
of  last  year;  and  —  as  her  maid  unpacked  —  Lavinia  saw 
the  familiar  pink  tulle  and  the  lavender  gown  with  the 
gold  velvet  buttons. 

"  Your  dressmaker  is  very  late,"  she  observed  thought 
lessly. 

A  slow  flush  spread  over  the  other's  countenance;  she 
did  not  reply  immediately  and  Lavinia  would  have  given 
a  great  deal  to  unsay  her  period. 

"It  isn't  that,"  Gheta  finally  explained;  "the  family 
find  that  I  am  too  expensive.  You  see,  I  haven't  justified 
their  hopes  and  they  have  been  cutting  down." 

Her  voice  was  thin,  metallic;  her  features  had  sharp 
ened  like  folded  paper  creased  between  the  fingers, 

[136] 


THE   FLOWER   OF   SPAIN 

"  It's  very  good  form  here,"  she  went  on,  dancing  about 
her  room.  It  was  hardly  more  than  a  marble  gallery,  the 
peristyle  choked  with  flowering  bushes,  camellias  and  al- 
thea  and  hibiscus,  barely  furnished,  and  filled  with  drift 
ing  perfumes  and  the  savor  of  the  sea.  "  What  a  shame 
that  these  things  must  be  got  at  a  price !  " 

Lavinia  glanced  at  her  sharply;  until  the  present  mo 
ment  that  would  have  expressed  her  own  attitude,  but  said 
by  Gheta  it  seemed  a  little  crude.  It  was,  anyhow,  pain 
fully  obvious,  and  she  had  no  intention  of  showing  Gheta 
the  true  state  of  her  being. 

"Isn't  that  so  of  everything  —  worth  having?"  she 
asked,  adding  the  latter  purely  as  a  counter. 

The  elder  drew  up  her  fine  shoulders. 

"  That's  very  courageous  of  you,"  she  admitted  — 
"  especially  since  everybody  knew  your  opinion  of  Orsi. 
Heaven  knows  you  made  no  effort  to  disguise  your  feeling 
to  others." 

Lavinia  smiled  calmly;  Cesare  was  really  very  thought 
ful,  and  she  said  so.  Gheta  replied  at  a  sudden  tangent: 

"  Mochales  has  been  a  great  nuisance." 

Lavinia  was  gazing  through  an  opening  in  the  leaves 
at  the  sparkling  blue  plane  of  the  bay.  She  made  no 
movement,  aware  of  her  sister's  unsparing  curiosity  turned 
upon  her,  and  only  said: 

"Really?" 

"  Spaniards  are  so  tempestuous,"  Gheta  continued; 
"  he's  been  whispering  a  hundred  mad  schemes  in  my  ear. 
He  gave  up  an  important  engagement  in  Madrid  rather 
than  leave  Florence.  I  have  been  almost  stirred  by  him, 
he  is  so  slender  and  handsome. 

[137] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

"  Simply  every  woman  —  except  perhaps  me  —  is  in  love 
with  him." 

"  There's  no  danger  of  your  loving  any  one  besides  your 
self." 

"  I  saw  him  the  day  before  I  left;  told  him  where  I  was 
going.  Then  I  had  to  beg  him  not  to  take  the  same  train. 
He  said  he  was  going  to  Naples,  anyhow,  to  sail  from 
there  for  Spain.  He  will  be  at  the  Grand  Hotel  and  I 
gave  him  permission  to  see  me  here  once." 

Lavinia  revolved  slowly. 

"  Why  not?  He  turned  my  head  round  at  least  twice." 
She  moved  toward  the  door.  "  Ring  whenever  you  like," 
she  said;  "  there  are  servants  for  everything." 

In  her  room  she  wondered,  with  burning  cheeks,  when 
Abrego  y  Mochales  would  come.  Her  sentimental  inter 
est  in  him  had  waned  a  trifle  during  the  past  busy  weeks ; 
but,  in  spite  of  that,  he  was  the  great  romantic  attachment 
of  her  life.  If  he  had  returned  her  love  no  whispered 
scheme  would  have  been  too  mad.  What  would  he  think 
of  her  now  ?  But  she  knew  instinctively  that  there  would 
be  no  change  in  Mochales'  attitude.  He  was  in  love  with 
Gheta;  blind  to  the  rest  of  the  world. 

She  sat  lost  in  a  day-dream  —  how  different  her  life 
would  have  been,  married  to  the  bull-fighter !  She  would 
have  become  a  part  of  the  fierce  Spanish  crowds  at  the 
ring,  traveled  to  South  America,  seen  the  people  heap  roses, 
jewels,  upon  her  idol.  .  .  . 

Cesare  Orsi  stood  in  the  doorway,  smiling  with  oppres 
sive  good-nature. 

"  Lavinia,"  he  told  her,  "  I've  done  something,  and  now 
I'm  in  the  devil  of  a  doubt."  He  advanced,  holding  a 

[138] 


THE   FLOWER   OF   SPAIN 

small  package,  and  sat  on  the  edge  of  a  chair,  mopping 
his  brow.  "  You  see,"  he  began  diffidently,  "  that  is,  as 
you  must  know,  at  first  —  you  were  at  the  convent  —  I 
thought  something  of  proposing  for  your  sister.  Thank 
God,"  he  added  vigorously,  "  I  waited!  Well,  I  didn't; 
although,  to  be  completely  honest,  I  knew  that  it  came  to 
be  expected.  I  could  see  the  surprise  in  your  father's 
face.  It  occurred  to  me  afterward  that  if  I  had  brought 
Gheta  any  embarrassment  I'd  like  to  do  something  in  a 
small  way,  a  sort  of  acknowledgment.  And  to-day  I  saw 
this,"  he  held  out  the  package;  "  it  was  pretty  and  I 
bought  it  for  her  at  once.  But  now,  when  the  moment 
arrives,  I  hesitate  to  give  it  to  her.  Gheta  has  grown  so  — 
so  formal  that  I'm  afraid  of  her,"  he  laughed. 

Lavinia  unwrapped  the  paper  covering  from  a  green 
morocco  box  and,  releasing  the  catch,  saw  a  shimmering 
string  of  delicately  pink  pearls. 

"Cesare!"   she   exclaimed.     "How   gorgeous!"     She 
lifted  the  necklace,  letting  it  slide  cool  and  fine  through 
j  her  fingers.     "  It's  too  good  of  you.     This  has  cost  hun 
dreds  and  hundreds.     I'll  keep  it  myself." 

He  laughed,  shaking  all  over;  then  fell  serious. 

"  Everything  I  have  —  all,  all  —  is  yours,"  he  assured 
her.  Lavinia  turned  away  with  an  uncomfortable  feeling 
of  falseness.  "  What  do  you  predict  —  will  Gheta  take  it, 
understand,  or  will  she  play  the  frozen  princess?  " 

"  If  I  know  Gheta,  she'll  take  it,"  Lavinia  promptly 
replied. 

Orsi  presented  Gheta  Sanviano  with  the  necklace  at 
dinner.  She  took  it  slowly  from  its  box  and  glanced  at 
the  diamond  clasp. 

[139] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

"Thank  you,  Cesare,  immensely!  What  a  shame  that 
pink  pearls  so  closely  resemble  coral!  No  one  gives  you 
credit  for  them." 

A  feeling  of  shame  for  her  sister's  ungraciousness  pos 
sessed  Lavinia  and  mounted  to  angry  resentment.  She 
had  no  particular  desire  to  champion  Cesare,  but  the  sim 
plicity  and  kindness  of  his  thought  demanded  more  than 
a  superficial  admission.  At  the  same  time  she  had  no 
intention  of  permitting  Gheta  any  display  of  superiority 
here. 

"  You  need  only  say  they  were  from  Cesare,"  she  ob 
served  coldly;  "  with  him,  it  is  always  pearls." 

Such  a  tide  of  pleasure  swept  over  her  husband's  coun 
tenance  that  Lavinia  bit  her  lip  in  annoyance.  She  had 
intended  only  to  rebuke  Gheta  and  had  not  calculated 
the  effect  of  her  speech  upon  Cesare.  She  was  scrupu 
lously  careful  not  to  mislead  the  latter  with  regard  to  her 
feeling  for  him.  She  went  to  a  rather  needless  extreme  to 
demonstrate  that  she  conducted  herself  from  a  sense  of 
duty  and  propriety  alone. 

Her  married  life,  she  assured  herself,  already  resembled 
the  Mantegazzas',  whose  indifferent  courtesy  she  had 
marked  and  wondered  at.  Perhaps  in  time,  like  them, 
she  would  grow  accustomed  to  it;  but  now  it  took  all  her 
determination  to  maintain  the  smallest  daily  amenities. 
It  was  not  that  her  actual  condition  was  unbearable,  but 
only  that  it  was  so  tragically  removed  from  what  she  had 
imagined;  she  had  dreamed  of  romance,  it  had  been  em 
bodied  for  her  eager  gaze  —  and  she  had  married  Cesare 
Orsi! 

Gheta  returned  the  necklace  to  its  box  and  the  dinner 
[140] 


THE    FLOWER   OF   SPAIN 

progressed  in  silence.  The  coffee  was  on  when  the  elder 
sister  said: 

"  I  had  a  card  from  the  Grand  Hotel  a  while  ago; 
Abrego  y  Mochales  is  there." 

"  And  there,"  Orsi  put  in  promptly,  "  I  hope  he'll  stay, 
or  sail  for  Spain.  I  don't  want  the  clown  about  here." 

Gheta  turned. 

"  But  you  will  regret  that,"  she  addressed  Lavinia;  "  you 
always  found  him  so  fascinating." 

Lavinia's  husband  cleared  his  throat  sharply;  he  was 
clearly  impatiently  annoyed. 

"What  foolishness!"  he  cried.  "From  the  first, 
Lavinia  has  been  scarcely  conscious  of  his  existence." 

Lavinia  avoided  her  sister's  mocking  gaze,  disturbed  and 
angry. 

"  Certainly  Signore  Mochales  must  be  asked  here,"  she 
declared. 

"  I  suppose  it  can't  be  avoided,"  Orsi  muttered. 

It  was  arranged  that  the  Spaniard  should  dine  with 
them  on  the  following  evening  and  Lavinia  spent  the  in 
tervening  time  in  exploring  her  emotions.  She  recognized 
now  that  Gheta  hated  both  Cesare  and  herself,  and  that 
she  would  miss  no  opportunity  to  force  an  awkward  or 
even  dangerously  unpleasant  situation  upon  them.  Gheta 
had  sharpened  in  being  as  well  as  in  countenance  to  such  a 
degree  that  Lavinia  lost  what  natural  affection  for  her  sis 
ter  she  had  retained. 

This,  in  a  way,  allied  her  with  Cesare.  She  was  now 
able  at  least  to  survey  him  in  a  detached  manner,  with  an 
impersonal  comprehension  of  his  good  qualities  and 
aesthetic  shortcomings;  and  in  pointing  out  to  Gheta  the 

[141] 


THE   HAPPY    END 

lavish  beauty  of  her  —  Lavinia's  —  surroundings,  she  en 
gendered  in  herself  a  slight  proprietary  pride.  She  met 
Abrego  y  Mochales  at  the  basin  with  a  direct  bright  smile, 
standing  firmly  upon  her  wall. 

Against  the  blue  water  shadowed  by  the  promise  of 
dusk  he  was  a  somber  and  splendid  figure.  Her  heart 
undeniably  beat  faster  and  she  was  vexed  when  he  turned 
immediately  to  Gheta.  His  greeting  was  intensely  serious, 
his  gaze  so  hungry  that  Lavinia  looked  away.  It  was  vul 
gar,  she  told  herself.  Cesare  met  them  above  and  greeted 
Mochales  with  a  superficial  heartiness.  It  was  difficult  for 
Cesare  Orsi  to  conceal  his  opinions  and  feelings.  The 
other  man's  gravity  was  superb. 

At  dinner  conversation  languished.  Gheta,  in  a  very 
low  dress,  had  a  bright  red  scarf  about  her  shoulders,  and 
was  painted.  This  was  so  unusual  that  it  had  almost  the 
effect  of  a  disguise;  her  eyes  were  staring  and  brilliant, 
her  fingers  constantly  fidgeting  and  creasing  her  napkin. 
Afterward  she  walked  with  Mochales  to  the  corner  of 
the  belvedere,  where  they  had  all  been  sitting,  and  from 
there  drifted  the  low  continuous  murmur  of  her  voice, 
briefly  punctuated  by  a  deep  masculine  note  of  interroga 
tion.  Below,  the  water  was  invisible  in  the  wrap  of  night. 
Naples  shone  like  a  pale  gold  net  drawn  about  the  sweep 
of  its  hills.  A  glow  like  a  thumb  print  hung  over  Vesu 
vius;  the  hidden  column  of  smoke  smudged  the  stars. 

Lavinia  grew  restless  and  descended  to  her  room,  where 
she  procured  a  fan.  Returning,  she  was  partly  startled  by 
a  pale  still  figure  in  the  gloom  of  a  passage.  She  saw 
that  it  was  Gheta,  and  spoke;  but  the  other  moved  away 
without  reply  and  quickly  vanished.  Above,  Lavinia 

[142] 


THE   FLOWER   OF   SPAIN 

halted  at  the  strange  spectacle  —  clearly  drawn  against 
the  luminous  depths  of  space  —  of  Mochales  and  her 
husband  rigidly  facing  each  other. 

"  I  must  admit,"  Orsi  said  in  an  exasperated  voice, 
"  that  I  don't  understand." 

Lavinia  saw  that  he  was  holding  something  in  a  half- 
extended  hand.  Moving  closer,  she  identified  the  object 
as  the  necklace  he  had  given  Gheta. 

"What  is  it  that  you  don't  understand,  Cesare?  "  she 
asked. 

"  Some  infernal  joke  or  foolishness!  " 

"  It  is  no  joke,  signore,"  Mochales  responded;  "  and  it 
is  better,  perhaps,  for  your  wife  to  leave  us." 

Orsi  turned  to  Lavinia. 

"  He  gives  me  back  this  necklace  of  Gheta's,"  he  ex 
plained;  "  he  says  that  he  has  every  right.  It  appears  that 
Gheta  is  going  to  marry  him,  and  he  already  objects  to 
presents  from  her  brother-in-law." 

"  But  what  stuff!  "  Lavinia  pronounced. 

A  swift  surprise'  overtook  her  at  Cesare's  announce 
ment  —  Gheta  and  Mochales  to  marry !  She  was  certain 
that  the  arrangement  had  not  existed  that  morning.  A 
fleet  inchoate  sorrow  numbed  her  heart  and  fled. 

"  Orsi  has  been  only  truthful  enough  to  suit  his  own 

purpose,"  Mochales  stated.  "  Signora,  please "  He 

indicated  the  descent  from  the  belvedere. 

She  moved  closer  to  him,  smiling  appealingly. 

"  What  is  it  all  about?  "  she  queried. 

"  Forgive  me;  it  is  impossible  to  answer." 

"  Cesare?  "     She  addressed  her  husband. 

"  Why,  this  —  this  donkey  hints  that  there  was  some- 
[143] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

thing  improper  in  my  present.  It  seems  that  I  have  been 
annoying  Gheta  by  my  attentions,  flattering  her  with 
pearls." 

"Did  Gheta  tell  you  that?"  Lavinia  demanded.  A 
growing  resentment  took  possession  of  her.  "  Because  if 
she  did,  she  lied!  " 

"  Ah !  "  Mochales  whispered  sharply. 

"  They're  both  mad,"  Orsi  told  her,  "  and  should  be 
dipped  in  the  bay." 

Never  had  Abrego  y  Mochales  appeared  handsomer; 
never  more  like  fine  bronze.  That  latter  fact  struck  her 
forcibly.  His  face  was  no  more  mutable  than  a  mask  of 
metal.  Its  stark  rigidity  sent  a  cold  tremor  to  her  heart. 

"  And,"  she  went  on  impetuously,  "  since  Gheta  said 
that,  I'll  tell  you  really  about  this  necklace:  Cesare  gave 
it  to  her  because  he  was  sorry  for  her;  because  he  thought 
that  perhaps  he  had  misled  her.  He  spoke  of  it  to  me 
first." 

"No,  signora,"  the  Spaniard  responded  deliberately; 
"  it  is  not  your  sister  who  lies." 

Cesare  Orsi  exclaimed  angrily.  He  took  a  hasty  step; 
but  Lavinia,  quicker,  moved  between  the  two  men. 

"  This  is  impossible,"  she  declared,  "  and  must  stop 
immediately !  It  is  childish !  " 

There  was  now  a  metallic  ring  in  Mochales'  voice  that 
disturbed  her  even  more  than  his  words.  The  bull-fighter, 
completely  immobile,  seemed  a  little  inhuman;  he  was 
without  a  visible  stir  of  emotion,  but  Orsi  looked  more 
puzzled  and  angry  every  moment. 

"This,"  he  ejaculated,  "in  my  own  house  —  infa 
mous!" 

[144] 


THE   FLOWER   OF   SPAIN 

"  Signer  Mochales,"  Lavinia  reiterated,  "  what  I  have 
told  you  is  absolutely  so." 

"  Your  sister,  signora,  has  said  something  different.  .  .  . 
She  did  not  want  to  tell  me,  but  I  persisted  —  I  saw  that 
something  was  wrong  —  and  forced  it  from  her." 

"  Enough !  "  Orsi  commanded.  "  One  can  see  plainly 
that  you  have  been  duped ;  some  things  may  be  overlooked. 
.  .  .  You  have  talked  enough." 

Mochales  moved  easily  forward. 

"  You  pudding !  "  he  said  in  a  low  even  voice.  "  Do 
you  talk  to  me  —  Abrego  y  Mochales?  " 

A  dark  tide  of  passion,  visible  even  in  the  night,  flooded 
Orsi's  countenance. 

"Leave!  "  he  insisted.  "  Or  I'll  have  you  flung  into 
the  bay." 

A  deep  silence  followed,  in  which  Lavinia  could  hear 
the  stir  of  the  water  against  the  walls  below.  A  sharp  fear 
entered  her  heart,  a  new  dread  of  the  Spaniard.  He  was 
completely  outside  the  circle  of  impulses  which  she  under 
stood  and  to  which  she  reacted.  He  was  not  a  part  of  her 
world;  he  coldly  menaced  the  foundations  of  all  right  and 
security.  Her  worship  of  romance  died  miserably.  In  a 
way,  she  thought,  she  was  responsible  for  the  present 
horrible  situation;  it  was  the  result  of  the  feeling  she  had 
had  for  Mochales.  Lavinia  was  certain  that  if  Gheta  had 
not  known  of  it  the  Spaniard  would  have  been  quickly 
dropped  by  the  elder.  She  was  suddenly  conscious  of  the 
perfume  he  always  bore;  that,  curiously,  lent  him  a  strange 
additional  oppression. 

"  Mochales,"  he  said  in  a  species  of  strained  wonder 
ment,  "  threatened  .  .  .  thrown  into  the  bay !  Mochales 

[145] 


THE   HAPPY    END 

—  the  Flower  of  Spain !  And  by  a  helpless  mound  of  fat, 
a  tub  of  entrails " 

"  Cesare!  "  Lavinia  cried  in  an  energy  of  desperation. 
"  Come !  Don't  listen  to  him." 

Orsi  released  her  grasp. 

"  I  believe  you  are  at  the  Grand  Hotel?  "  he  addressed 
the  other  man. 

"  Until  I  hear  from  you." 

"  To-morrow " 

All  the  heat  had  apparently  evaporated  from  their 
words;  they  spoke  with  a  perfunctory  politeness.  Cesare 
Orsi  said: 

"  I  will  order  the  launch." 

In  a  few  minutes  the  palpitations  of  the  steam  died  in 
the  direction  of  Naples. 


VII 


Lavinia  followed  her  husband  to  their  rooms,  where  he 
sat  smoking  one  of  his  long  black  cigars.  He  was  pale; 
his  brow  was  wet  and  his  collar  wilted.  She  stood  beside 
him  and  he  patted  her  arm. 

"  Everything  is  in  order,"  he  assured  her. 

A  species  of  blundering  tenderness  for  him  possessed 
her;  an  unexpected  throb  of  her  being  startled  and  robbed 
her  of  words.  He  mistook  her  continued  silence. 

"  All  I  have  is  yours,"  he  explained;  "  it  is  your  right. 
I  can  see  now  that  —  that  my  money  was  all  I  had  to  offer 
you.  The  only  thing  of  value  I  possess.  I  should  have 
realized  that  a  girl,  charming  like  yourself,  couldn't  care 
for  a  mound  of  fat." 

[146] 


THE    FLOWER   OF   SPAIN 

Her  tenderness  rose  till  it  choked  in  her  throat,  blurred 
what  she  had  to  say. 

"  Cesare,"  she  told  him,  "  Gheta  was  right;  at  one  time 
I  was  in  love  with  Mochales."  He  turned  with  a  startled 
exclamation;  but  she  silenced  him.  "  He  was,  it  seemed, 
all  that  a  girl  might  admire  —  dark  and  mysterious  and 
handsome.  He  was  romantic.  I  demanded  nothing  else 
then ;  now  something  has  happened  that  I  don't  altogether 
understand,  but  it  has  changed  everything  for  me.  Cesare, 
your  money  never  made  any  difference  in  my  feeling  for 

you  —  it  didn't  before  and  it  doesn't  to-night "  She 

hesitated  and  blushed  painfully,  awkwardly. 

The  cigar  fell  from  his  hand  and  he  rose,  eagerly  facing 
her. 

"  Lavinia,"  he  asked,  "  is  it  possible  —  do  you  mean 
that  you  care  the  least  about  me?  " 

"  It  must  be  that,  Cesare,  because  I  am  so  terribly 
afraid." 

Later  he  admitted  ruefully: 

"  But  no  man  should  resemble,  as  I  do,  a  great  oyster. 
I  shall  pay  very  dearly  for  my  laziness." 

"•You  are  not  going  to  fight  Mochales!  "  she  protested. 
"  It  would  be  insanity." 

"  Insanity,"  he  agreed  promptly.  "  Yet  I  can't  permit 
myself  to  be  the  target  for  vile  tongues." 

Lavinia  abruptly  left  him  and  hurried  to  her  sister's 
room.  The  door  was  locked;  she  knocked,  but  got  no 
response. 

"  Gheta,"  she  called,  low  and  urgently,  "  open  at  once! 
Your  plans  have  gone  dreadfully  wrong.  Gheta!  "  she 
said  more  sharply  into  the  answering  silence.  "  Cesare 

[147] 


THE   HAPPY    END 

has  had  a  terrific  argument  with  Mochales,  and  worse  may 
follow.  Open!  "  There  was  still  no  answer,  and  sud 
denly  she  beat  upon  the  door  with  her  fists.  "  Liar!  "  she 
cried  thinly  through  the  wood.  "Liar!  You  bitter  old 
stick!  I'll  make  you  eat  that  necklace,  pearl  for  pearl, 
sorrow  for  sorrow!  " 

A  feeling  of  impotence  overwhelmed  her  at  the  implac 
able  stillness  that  succeeded  her  hysterical  outburst.  She 
stood  with  a  pounding  heart,  and  clasped  straining  fingers. 

Abrego  y  Mochales  could  kill  Cesare  without  the  slight 
est  shadow  of  a  question.  There  was,  she  recognized, 
something  essentially  feminine  in  the  saturnine  bull 
fighter;  his  pride  had  been  severely  assaulted;  and  there 
fore  he  would  be  —  in  his  own,  less  subtle  manner  —  as 
dangerous  as  Gheta.  Cesare's  self-esteem,  too,  had  been 
wounded  in  its  most  vulnerable  place  —  he  had  been  in 
sulted  before  her.  But,  even  if  the  latter  refused  to  pro 
ceed,  Mochales,  she  knew,  would  force  an  acute  con 
clusion.  There  was  nothing  to  be  got  from  her  sister  and 
she  slowly  returned  to  her  chamber,  from  which  she  could 
hear  Orsi's  heavy  footfalls. 

She  mechanically  removed  the  square  emerald  that  hung 
from  a  platinum  thread  about  her  neck,  took  off  her  rings, 
and  proceeded  to  the  small  iron  safe  where  valuables  were 
kept.  As  she  swung  open  the  door  a  sheet  of  paper  slipped 
forward  from  an  upper  compartment.  It  bore  a  printed 
address  ...  in  the  Strada  San  Lucia.  She  saw  that  it 
was  the  blackmailing  letter  Cesare  had  received  from  the 
Neapolitan  secret  society,  demanding  two  thousand  lire. 
She  recalled  what  he  had  said  at  the  time  —  if  she  had  an 
enemy  her  gown  could  be  spoiled  in  the  foyer  of  the  opera ; 

[148] 


THE   FLOWER   OF   SPAIN 

a  man  ruined  at  his  club.  .  .  .  Even  murders  were 
ascribed  to  it. 

She  held  the  letter,  gazing  fixedly  at  the  address,  men 
tally  repeating  again  and  again  the  significance  of  its 
contents.  She  thought  of  showing  it  to  Cesare,  suggest 
ing  But  she  realized  that,  bound  by  a  conventional 

honor,  he  would  absolutely  refuse  to  listen  to  her. 

Almost  subconsciously  she  folded  the  sheet  and  hid  it  in 
her  dress.  Kneeling  before  the  safe  she  procured  a  long 
red  envelope.  It  contained  the  sum  of  money  her  father 
had  given  her  at  the  wedding.  It  was  her  dot  —  a  com 
paratively  small  amount,  he  had  said  at  the  time  with 
an  apologetic  smile;  but  it  was  absolutely,  unquestionably 
her  own.  This,  when  she  locked  the  safe,  remained  out 
side. 

When  she  had  hidden  the  letter  and  envelope  in  her 
dressing  table  Cesare  stood  in  the  doorway.  He  was  still 
pale,  but  composed,  and  held  himself  with  simple  dignity. 

"  Some  men,"  he  said,  "  are  not  so  happy,  even  for  an 
hour." 

A  sudden  passionate  necessity  to  save  him  swept  over 
her. 

In  the  morning  Orsi  remained  at  the  villa,  but  he  sent 
the  launch  in  early  with  an  urgent  summons  for  the  Cava- 
liere  Nelli.  Later,  when  he  asked  for  Lavinia,  he  was 
told  that  she  had  gone  to  Naples;  and  when  the  boat  re 
turned,  Nelli  —  a  military  figure,  with  hair  and  mustache 
like  yellowish  white  silk  —  assisted  her  to  the  wall.  She 
was  closely  veiled  against  the  sparkling  flood  of  light  and 
bay,  and  hurried  directly  to  her  room. 

There  she  knelt  on  a  praying  chair  before  a  small  al- 
[149] 


THE   HAPPY   END 

coved  altar  with  tall  wax  tapers,  and  remained  a  long 
while.  She  was  disturbed  by  a  sudden  ringing  report 
below;  it  was  Cesare  practising  with  a  dueling  pistol. 
Lavinia  remembered,  from  laughing  comments  in  Flor 
ence,  that  her  husband  was  an  atrocious  shot.  The  sound 
was  repeated  at  irregular  intervals  through  an  unbearably 
long  morning. 

Gheta,  she  learned,  had  refused  the  morning  chocolate 
and,  with  her  maid,  had  collected  and  packed  all  her 
effects.  Lavinia  had  no  desire  to  see  her.  The  situation 
now  was  past  Gheta 's  mending. 

After  luncheon  Lavinia  remained  in  her  room,  Nelli  de 
parted  for  Naples  and  Cesare  joined  her.  It  was  evident 
that  he  was  greatly  disturbed;  but  he  spoke  to  her  evenly. 
He  was  possessed  by  an  impotent  rage  at  his  unwieldy 
body  and  clumsy  hand.  This  alternated  with  an  evident 
wonderment  at  the  position  in  which  he  found  himself  and 
a  great  tenderness  for  Lavinia. 

At  dusk  they  were  in  Lavinia's  room  waiting  for  a 
message  from  Naples.  Lavinia  was  leaning  across  the 
marble  ledge  of  her  window,  gazing  over  the  dim  blue 
sweep  of  water  to  the  distant  flowering  lights.  She  heard 
sudden  footsteps  and,  half  turning,  saw  her  husband  tear 
ing  open  an  envelope. 

"  Lavinia !  "  he  cried.  "  There  has  been  an  accident  in 
the  elevator  of  the  Grand  Hotel,  and  Mochales  —  is 
dead!  "  She  hung  upon  the  ledge  now  for  support. 
"  The  attendant,  a  new  man,  started  the  car  too  soon  and 

caught  Mochales "     She  sank  down  upon  her  knees 

in  an  attitude  of  prayer,  and  Cesare  Orsi  stood  reverently 
bowed. 

[ISO] 


THE   FLOWER   OF   SPAIN 

"  The  will  of  God!  "  he  muttered. 

A  long  slow  shiver  passed  over  Lavinia,  and  he  bent 
and  lifted  her  in  his  arms. 


[151] 


TOL'ABLE  DAVID 


HE  was  the  younger  of  two  brothers,  in  his  six 
teenth  year;  and  he  had  his  father's  eyes  —  a 
tender  and  idyllic  blue.  There,  however,  the 
obvious  resemblance  ended.  The  elder's  azure  gaze  was 
set  in  a  face  scarred  and  riven  by  hardship,  debauch  and 
disease;  he  had  been  —  before  he  had  inevitably  returned 
to  the  mountains  where  he  was  born  —  a  brakeman  in  the 
lowest  stratum  of  the  corruption  of  small  cities  on  big  rail 
roads;  and  his  thin  stooped  body,  his  gaunt  head  and 
uncertain  hands,  all  bore  the  stamp  of  ruinous  years.  But 
in  the  midst  of  this  his  eyes,  like  David's,  retained  their 
singularly  tranquil  color  of  sweetness  and  innocence. 

David  was  the  youngest,  the  freshest  thing  imaginable; 
he  was  overtall  and  gawky,  his  cheeks  were  as  delicately 
rosy  as  apple  blossoms,  and  his  smile  was  an  epitome  of 
ingenuous  interest  and  frank  wonder.  It  was  as  if  some 
quality  of  especial  fineness,  lingering  unspotted  in  Hun 
ter  Kinemon,  had  found  complete  expression  in  his  son 
David.  A  great  deal  of  this  certainly  was  due  to  his 
mother,  a  thick  solid  woman,  who  retained  more  than  a 
trace  of  girlish  beauty  when  she  stood  back,  flushed  from 
the  heat  of  cooking,  or,  her  bright  eyes  snapping,  tramped 
with  heavy  pails  from  the  milking  shed  on  a  winter  morn 
ing. 

Both  the  Kinemon  boys  were  engaging.  Allen,  almost 
twenty-one,  was,  of  course,  the  more  conspicuous;  he  was 

[155] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

called  the  strongest  youth  in  Greenstream  County.  He 
had  his  mother's  brown  eyes;  a  deep  bony  box  of  a  chest; 
rippling  shoulders;  and  a  broad  peaceful  countenance. 
He  drove  the  Crabapple  stage,  between  Crabapple,  the 
village  just  over  the  back  mountain,  and  Beaulings,  in 
West  Virginia.  It  was  twenty-six  miles  from  point  to 
point,  a  way  that  crossed  a  towering  range,  hung 
above  a  far  veil  of  unbroken  spruce,  forded  swift  glitter 
ing  streams,  and  followed  a  road  that  passed  rare  iso 
lated  dwellings,  dominating  rocky  and  precarious  patches 
and  hills  of  cultivation.  One  night  Allen  slept  in  Beau- 
lings;  the  next  he  was  home,  rising  at  four  o'clock  in  order 
to  take  his  stage  out  of  Crabapple  at  seven  sharp. 

It  was  a  splendid  job,  and  brought  them  thirty-five  dol 
lars  a  month;  not  in  mere  trade  at  the  store,  but  actual 
money.  This,  together  with  Hunter  Kinemon's  position, 
tending  the  rich  bottom  farm  of  State  Senator  Gait,  gave 
them  a  position  of  ease  and  comfort  in  Greenstream. 
They  were  a  very  highly  esteemed  family. 

Gait's  farm  was  in  grazing;  it  extended  in  deep  green 
pastures  and  sparkling  water  between  two  high  moun 
tainous  walls  drawn  across  east  and  west.  In  the  morn 
ing  the  rising  sun  cast  long  delicate  shadows  on  one  side; 
at  evening  the  shadow  troops  lengthened  across  the  emer 
ald  valley  from  the  other.  The  farmhouse  occupied  a 
fenced  clearing  on  the  eastern  rise,  with  a  gray  huddle 
of  barn  and  sheds  below,  a  garden  patch  of  innumerable 
bean  poles,  and  an  incessant  stir  of  snowy  chickens.  Be 
yond,  the  cattle  moved  in  sleek  chestnut-brown  and  orange 
herds;  and  farther  out  flocks  of  sheep  shifted  like  gray- 
white  clouds  on  a  green-blue  sky. 

[156] 


TOL'ABLE    DAVID 

It  was,  Mrs.  Kinemon  occasionally  complained,  power 
ful  lonely,  with  the  store  two  miles  up  the  road,  Crab- 
apple  over  a  heft  of  a  rise,  and  no  personable  neighbors; 
and  she  kept  a  loaded  rifle  in  an  angle  of  the  kitchen  when 
the  men  were  all  out  in  a  distant  pasturage.  But  David 
liked  it  extremely  well ;  he  liked  riding  an  old  horse  after 
the  steers,  the  all-night  sap  boilings  in  spring  groves,  the 
rough  path  across  a  rib  of  the  mountain  to  school. 

Nevertheless,  he  was  glad  when  studying  was  over  for 
the  year.  It  finished  early  in  May,  on  account  of  upland 
planting,  and  left  David  with  a  great  many  weeks  filled 
only  with  work  that  seem  to  him  unadulterated  play. 
Even  that  didn't  last  all  the  time;  there  were  hours  when 
he  could  fish  for  trout,  plentiful  in  cool  rocky  pools;  or 
shoot  gray  squirrels  in  the  towering  maples.  Then,  of  eve 
nings,  he  could  listen  to  Allen's  thrilling  tales  of  the  road, 
of  the  gambling  and  fighting  among  the  lumbermen  in 
Beaulings,  or  of  strange  people  that  had  taken  passage  in 
the  Crabapple  stage  —  drummers,  for  the  most  part,  with 
impressive  diamond  rings  and  the  doggonedest  lies  imagin 
able.  But  they  couldn't  fool  Allen,  however  believing  he 
might  seem.  .  .  .  The  Kinemons  were  listening  to  such  a 
recital  by  their  eldest  son  now. 

They  were  gathered  in  a  room  of  very  general  purpose. 
It  had  a  rough  board  floor  and  crumbling  plaster  walls, 
and  held  a  large  scarred  cherry  bed  with  high  posts  and  a 
gayly  quilted  cover;  a  long  couch,  covered  with  yellow 
untanned  sheepskins;  a  primitive  telephone;  some  painted 
wooden  chairs;  a  wardrobe,  lurching  insecurely  forward; 
and  an  empty  iron  stove  with  a  pipe  let  into  an  original 
open  hearth  with  a  wide  rugged  stone.  Beyond,  a  door 

[157] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

opened  into  the  kitchen,  and  back  of  the  bed  a  raw  un 
guarded  flight  of  steps  led  up  to  the  peaked  space  where 
Allen  and  David  slept. 

Hunter  Kinemon  was  extended  on  the  couch,  his  home- 
knitted  socks  comfortably  free  of  shoes,  smoking  a  sand 
stone  pipe  with  a  reed  stem.  Mrs.  Kinemon  was  seated  in 
a  rocking-chair  with  a  stained  and  torn  red  plush  cushion, 
that  moved  with  a  thin  complaint  on  a  fixed  base.  Allen 
was  over  against  the  stove,  his  corduroy  trousers  thrust  into 
greased  laced  boots,  and  a  black  cotton  shirt  open  on  a 
chest  and  throat  like  pink  marble.  And  David  sup 
ported  his  lanky  length,  in  a  careless  and  dust-colored 
garb,  with  a  capacious  hand  on  the  oak  beam  of  the 
mantel. 

It  was  May,  school  had  stopped,  and  a  door  was  open 
on  a  warm  still  dusk.  Allen's  tale  had  come  to  an  end; 
he  was  pinching  the  ear  of  a  diminutive  dog  —  like  a  fat 
white  sausage  with  wire-thin  legs  and  a  rat  tail  —  that 
never  left  him.  The  smoke  from  the  elder  Kinemon's  pipe 
rose  in  a  tranquil  cloud.  Mrs.  Kinemon  rocked  vigor 
ously,  with  a  prolonged  wail  of  the  chair  springs.  "  I  got 
to  put  some  tallow  to  that  chair,"  Kinemon  proclaimed. 

"  The  house  on  Elbow  Barren's  took,"  Allen  told  him 
suddenly  — "  the  one  just  off  the  road.  I  saw  smoke  in 
the  chimney  this  evening." 

A  revival  of  interest,  a  speculation,  followed  this  an 
nouncement. 

"  Any  women'll  get  to  the  church,"  Mr.  Kinemon  as 
serted.  "  I  wonder?  Did  a  person  say  who  were  they?  " 

"  I  asked;  but  they're  strange  to  Crabapple.  I  heard 
this  though :  there  weren't  any  women  to  them  —  just  men 

[158] 


TOL'ABLE   DAVID 

—  father  and  sons  like.  I  drew  up  right  slow  going  by; 
but  nobody  passed  out  a  word.  It's  a  middling  bad  farm 
place  —  rocks  and  berry  bushes.  I  wouldn't  reckon  much 
would  be  content  there." 

David  walked  out  through  the  open  doorway  and  stood 
on  the  small  covered  portico,  that  with  a  bench  on  each 
side,  hung  to  the  face  of  the  dwelling.  The  stars  were 
brightening  in  the  sky  above  the  confining  mountain  walls ; 
there  was  a  tremendous  shrilling  of  frogs;  the  faint  clamor 
of  a  sheep  bell.  He  was  absolutely,  irresponsibly  happy. 
He  wished  the  time  would  hurry  when  he'd  be  big  and 
strong  like  Allen,  and  get  out  into  the  absorbing  stir 
of  the  world. 


II 

He  was  dimly  roused  by  Allen's  departure  in  the  begin 
ning  brightness  of  the  following  morning.  The  road  over 
which  the  stage  ran  drew  by  the  rim  of  the  farm;  and 
later  David  saw  the  rigid  three-seated  suwey,  the  leather 
mail  bags  strapped  in  the  rear,  trotted  by  under  the  swing 
ing  whip  of  his  brother.  He  heard  the  faint  sharp  bark 
of  Rocket,  Allen's  dog,  braced  at  his  side. 

David  spent  the  day  with  his  father,  repairing  the  fenc 
ing  of  the  middle  field,  swinging  a  mall  and  digging  post 
holes;  and  at  evening  his  arms  ached.  But  he  assured 
himself  he  was  not  tired;  any  brother  of  Allen's  couldn't 
give  in  before  such  insignificant  effort.  When  Hunter 
Kinemon  turned  back  toward  house  and  supper  David 
made  a  wide  circle,  ostensibly  to  see  whether  there  was 
rock  salt  enough  out  for  the  cattle,  but  in  reality  to  express 

[159] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

his  superabundant  youth,  staying  qualities  and  unquench 
able  vivid  interest  in  every  foot  of  the  valley. 

He  saw  the  meanest  kind  of  old  fox,  and  marked 
what  he  thought  might  be  its  hole ;  his  flashing  gaze  caught 
the  obscure  distant  retreat  of  ground  hogs;  he  threw  a 
contemptuous  clod  at  the  woolly-brained  sheep ;  and  with  a 
bent  willow  shoot  neatly  looped  a  trout  out  upon  the  grassy 
bank.  As  a  consequence  of  all  this  he  was  late  for  supper, 
and  sat  at  the  table  with  his  mother,  who  never  took  her 
place  until  the  men  —  yes,  and  boys  of  her  family  —  had 
satisfied  their  appetites.  The  dark  came  on  and  she 
lighted  a  lamp  swinging  under  a  tin  reflector  from  the  ceil 
ing.  The  kitchen  was  an  addition,  and  had  a  sloping 
shed  roof,  board  sides,  a  polished  stove,  and  a  long  table 
with  a  red  cloth. 

neLj^!4  learned>  attacking  a  plateful  of  brown 
"   chicken  swimming  with  greens  and  gravy,  was  having 
bad   spell.     He   had   the   familiar   sharp   pain 
through  his  back  and  his  arms  hurt  him. 

"  He  can't  be  drove  to  a  doctor,"  the  woman  told  David, 
a>^  ^-.speaking,  in  her  concern,  as  if  to  an  equal  in  age  and  com- 
<£&**  prehension. 

David  had  grown  accustomed  to  the  elder's  periods  of 
suffering;  they  came,  twisted  his  father's  face  into  deep 
lines,  departed,  and  things  were  exactly  as  before  —  or 
very  nearly  the  same.  The  boy  saw  that  Hunter  Kinemon 
couldn't  support  labor  that  only  two  -or  three  years  before 
he  would  have  finished  without  conscious  effort.  David 
resolutely  ignored  this;  he  felt  that  it  must  be  a  cause  of 
shame,  unhappiness,  to  his  father;  and  he  never  mentioned 
it  to  Allen. 

[160] 


TOLLABLE   DAVID 

Kinemon  lay  very  still  on  the  couch;  his  pipe,  beside 
him  on  the  floor,  had  spilled  its  live  core,  burning  into  a 
length  of  rag  carpet.  His  face,  hung  with  shadows  like 
the  marks  of  a  sooty  finger,  was  glistening  with  fine  sweat. 
Not  a  whisper  of  complaint  passed  his  dry  lips.  When 
his  wife  approached  he  attempted  to  smooth  out  his  cor 
rugated  countenance.  His  eyes,  as  tenderly  blue  as  flow 
ers,  gazed  at  her  with  a  faint  masking  of  humor. 

"  This  is  worse'n  usual,"  she  said  sharply.  "  And  I 
ain't  going  to  have  you  fill  yourself  with  any  more  of  that 
patent  trash.  You  don't  spare  me  by  not  letting  on.  I 
can  tell  as  soon  as  you're  miserable.  David  can  fetch 
the  doctor  from  Crabapple  to-night  if  you  don't  look 
better." 

"  But  I  am,"  he  assured  her.  "  It's  just  a  comeback  of 
an  old  ache.  There  was  a  power  of  heavy  work  to  that 
fence." 

"  You'll  have  to  get  more  to  help  you,"  she  continued. 
"  That  Galt'll  let  you  kill  yourself  and  not  turn  a  hand. 
He  can  afford  a  dozen.  I  don't  mind  housing  and  cook 
ing  for  them.  David's  only  tol'able  for  lifting,  too,  while 
he's  growing." 

"  Why,"  David  protested,  "  it  ain't  just  nothing  what  I 
do.  I  could  do  twice  as  much.  I  don't  believe  Allen 
could  helt  more'n  me  when  he  was  sixteen.  It  ain't  just 
nothing  at  all." 

He  was  disturbed  by  this  assault  upon  his  manhood;  if 
his  muscles  were  still  a  little  stringy  it  was  surprising 
what  he  could  accomplish  with  them.  He  would  show  her 
to-morrow. 

"  And,"  he  added  impetuously,  "  I  can  shoot  better  than 
[161] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

Allen  right  now.  You  ask  him  if  I  can't.  You  ask  him 
what  I,  did  with  that  cranky  twenty-two  last  Sunday  up  on 
the  mountain." 

His  clear  gaze  sought  her,  his  lean  face  quivered  with 
anxiety  to  impress,  convince  her  of  his  virility,  skill.  His 
jaw  was  as  sharp  as  the  blade  of  a  hatchet.  She  studied 
him  with  a  new  surprised  concern. 

"  David!  "  she  exclaimed.  "  For  a  minute  you  had  the 
look  of  a  man.  A  real  steady  look,  like  your  father. 
Don't  you  grow  up  too  fast,  David,"  she  directed  him,  in 
an  irrepressible  maternal  solicitude.  "  I  want*  a  boy  — 
something  young  —  round  a  while  yet." 

Hunter  Kinemon  sat  erect  and  reached  for  his  pipe. 
The  visible  strain  of  his  countenance  had  been  largely  re 
laxed.  When  his  wife  had  left  the  room  for  a  moment  he 
admitted  to  David: 

"  That  was  a  hard  one.  I  thought  she  had  me  that 
time." 

The  elder's  voice  was  light,  steady.  The  boy  gazed  at 
him  with  intense  admiration.  He  felt  instinctively 
that  nothing  mortal  could  shake  the  other's  courage.  And, 
on  top  of  his  mother's  complimentary  surprise,  his  father 
had  confided  in  him,  made  an  admission  that,  David  real 
ized,  must  be  kept  from  fretting  women.  He  couldn't  have 
revealed  more  to  Allen  himself. 

He  pictured  the  latter  swinging  magnificently  into  Beau- 
lings,  cracking  the  whip  over  the  horses'  ears,  putting  on 
the  grinding  brake  before  the  post-office.  No  one,  even  in 
that  town  of  reckless  drinking,  ever  tried  to  down  Allen; 
he  was  as  ready  as  he  was  strong.  He  had  charge  of 
Government  mail  and  of  passengers;  he  carried  a  bur- 

[162] 


TOL'ABLE    DAVID 

nished  revolver  in  a  holster  under  the  seat  at  his  hand. 
Allen  would  kill  anybody  who  interfered  with  him.  So 
would  he  —  David  —  if  a  man  edged  up  on  him  or  on  his 
family;  if  any  one  hurt  even  a  dog  of  his,  his  own  dog, 
he'd  shoot  him. 

An  inextinguishable  hot  pride,  a  deep  sullen  intolerance, 
rose  in  him  at  the  thought  of  an  assault  on  his  personal 
liberty,  his  rights,  or  on  his  connections  and  belongings. 
A  deeper  red  burned  in  his  fresh  young  cheeks;  his  smiling 
lips  were  steady;  his  candid  blue  eyes,  ineffably  gentle, 
gazed  widely  against  the  candlelit  gloom  where  he  was 
making  his  simple  preparations  for  bed.  The  last  feeling 
of  which  he  was  conscious  was  a  wave  of  sharp  admira 
tion,  of  love,  for  everything  and  everybody  that  constituted 
his  home. 

Ill 

Allen,  on  his  return  the  following  evening,  immediately 
opened  an  excited  account  of  the  new  family,  with  no 
women,  on  the  place  by  Elbow  Barren. 

"  I  heard  they  were  from  down  hell  wards  on  the 
Clinch,"  he  repeated;  "  and  then  that  they'd  come  from 
Kentucky.  Anyway,  they're  bad.  Ed  Arbogast  just 
stepped  on  their  place  for  a  pleasant  howdy,  and  some  one 
on  the  stoop  hollered  for  him  to  move.  Ed,  he  saw  the 
shine  on  a  rifle  barrel,  and  went  right  along  up  to  the  store. 
Then  they  hired  Simmons  —  the  one  that  ain't  good  in  his 
head  —  to  cut  out  bush ;  and  Simmons  trailed  home  after  a 
while  with  the  side  of  his  face  all  tore,  where  he'd  been 
hit  with  a  piece  of  board.  Simmons'  brother  went  and 
asked  them  what  was  it  about ;  and  one  of  the  Hatburns  — 

[163] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

that's  their  name  —  said  he'd  busted  the  loony  just  be 
cause!  " 

"  What  did  Simmons  answer  back?  "  Hunter  Kinemon 
demanded,  his  coffee  cup  suspended. 

"  Nothing  much ;  he'd  law  them,  or  something  like  that. 
The  Simmonses  are  right  spindling;  they  don't  belong  in 
Greenstream  either."  David  commented:  "  I  wouldn't 
have  et  a  thing  till  I'd  got  them!  "  In  the  ruddy  reflection 
of  the  lamp  his  pink-and-blue  charm,  his  shy  lips,  re 
sembled  a  pastoral  divinity  of  boyhood.  Allen  laughed. 

"That  family,  the  Hatburns "  He  paused. 

"  Why,  they'd  just  mow  you  down  with  the  field  daisies." 

David  flushed  with  annoyance.  He  saw  his  mother 
studying  him  with  the  attentive  concern  she  had  first  shown 
the  day  before  yesterday. 

"  You  have  no  call  to  mix  in  with  them,"  Kinemon  told 
his  elder  son.  "  Drive  stage  and  mind  your  business.  I'd 
even  step  aside  a  little  from  folks  like  that." 

A  sense  of  surprised  disappointment  invaded  David  at 
his  father's  statement.  It  seemed  to  him  out  of  keeping 
with  the  elder's  courage  and  determination.  It,  too, 
appeared  almost  spindling.  Perhaps  he  had  said  it 
because  his  wife,  a  mere  woman,  was  there.  He  was 
certain  that  Allen  would  not  agree  with  such  mildness. 
The  latter,  lounging  back  from  the  table,  narrowed  his 
eyes;  his  fingers  played  with  the  ears  of  his  dog,  Rocket. 
Allen  gave  his  father  a  cigar  and  lit  one  himself,  a  present 
from  a  passenger  on  the  stage.  David  could  see  a  third 
in  Allen's  shirt  pocket,  and  he  longed  passionately  for  the 
day  when  he  would  be  old  enough  to  have  a  cigar  offered 
him.  He  longed  for  the  time  when  he,  like  Allen,  would 

[164] 


TOL'ABLE   DAVID 

be  swinging  a  whip  over  the  horses  of  a  stage,  rumbling 
down  a  steep  mountain,  or  walking  up  at  the  team's  head 
to  take  off  some  weight. 

Where  the  stage  line  stopped  in  Beaulings  the  railroad 
began.  Allen,  he  knew,  intended  in  the  fall  to  give 
up  the  stage  for  the  infinitely  wider  world  of  freight  cars; 
and  David  wondered  whether  Priest,  the  storekeeper  in 
Crabapple  who  had  charge  of  the  awarding  of  the  posi 
tion,  could  be  brought  to  see  that  he  was  as  able  a  driver, 
almost,  as  Allen. 

It  was  probable  Priest  would  call  him  too  young  for  the 
charge  of  the  Government  mail.  But  he  wasn't;  Allen  had 
to  admit  that  he,  David,  was  the  straighter  shot.  He 
wouldn't  step  aside  for  any  Hatburn  alive.  And,  he  de 
cided,  he  would  smoke  nothing  but  cigars.  He  considered 
whether  he  might  light  his  small  clay  pipe,  concealed  under 
the  stoop,  before  the  family;  but  reluctantly  concluded  that 
that  day  had  not  yet  arrived. 

Allen  passed  driving  the  next  morning  as  usual,  leav 
ing  a  gray  wreath  of  dust  to  settle  back  into  the  tran 
quil  yellow  sunshine ;  the  sun  moved  from  the  east  barrier 
to  the  west;  a  cool  purple  dusk  filled  the  valley,  and  the 
shrilling  of  the  frogs  rose  to  meet  the  night.  The  follow 
ing  day  was  almost  identical  —  the  shadows  swept  out, 
shortened  under  the  groves  of  trees  and  drew  out  again  over 
the  sheep  on  the  western  slope.  Before  Allen  reached 
home  he  had  to  feed  and  bed  his  horses,  and  walk  back  the 
two  miles  over  the  mountain  from  Crabapple;  and  a  full 
hour  before  the  time  for  his  brother's  arrival,  David  was 
surprised  to  see  the  stage  itself  making  its  way  over  the 
precarious  turf  road  that  led  up  to  the  Kinemons'  dwelling. 

[165] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

He  was  standing  by  the  portico,  and  immediately  his 
mother  moved  out  to  his  side,  as  if  subconsciously  dis 
turbed  by  the  unusual  occurrence.  David  saw,  while  the 
stage  was  still  diminutive  against  the  rolling  pasture,  that 
Allen  was  not  driving;  and  there  was  an  odd  confusion  of 
figures  in  a  rear  seat.  Mrs.  Kinemon  said  at  once,  in  a 
shrill  strange  voice: 

"  Something  has  happened  to  Allen !  "  She  pressed 
her  hands  against  her  laboring  breast;  David  ran  for- 
wWd  and  met  the  surrey  as  it  came  through  the  fence 
opening  by  the  stable  shed.  Ed  Arbogast  was  driving; 
and  a  stranger  —  a  drummer  evidently  —  in  a  white-and- 
black  check  suit,  was  holding  Allen,  crumpled  in  a  dread 
ful  bloody  faint. 

"  Where's  Hunter?  "  Arbogast  asked  the  boy. 

"  There  he  comes  now,"  David  replied,  his  heart  pound 
ing  wildly  and  dread  constricting  his  throat. 

Hunter  Kinemon  and  his  wife  reached  the  stage  at  the 
same  moment.  Both  were  plaster- white ;  but  the  woman 
was  shaking  with  frightened  concern,  while  her  husband 
was  deliberate  and  still. 

"  Help  me  carry  him  in  to  our  bed,"  he  addressed  Ed 
Arbogast. 

They  lifted  Allen  out  and  bore  him  toward  the  house, 
his  limp  fingers,  David  saw,  trailing  through  the  grass. 
At  first  the  latter  involuntarily  turned  away;  but,  objur 
gating  such  cowardice,  he  forced  himself  to  gaze  at  Allen. 
He  recognized  at  once  that  his  brother  had  not  been  shot; 
his  hip  was  too  smeared  and  muddy  for  that.  It  was, 
he  decided,  an  accident,  as  Arbogast  and  the  drummer  lead 
Hunter  Kinemon  aside. 

[166] 


TOL'ABLE   DAVID 

David  Kinemon  walked  resolutely  up  to  the  little  group. 
His  father  gestured  for  him  to  go  away,  but  he  ignored  the 
elder's  command.  He  must  know  what  had  happened  to 
Allen.  The  stranger  in  the  checked  suit  was  speaking  ex 
citedly,  waving  trembling  hands  —  a  sharp  contrast  to  the 
grim  immobility  of  the  Greenstream  men: 

"  He'd  been  talking  about  that  family,  driving  out  of 
Beaulings  and  saying  how  they  had  done  this  and  that; 
and  when  we  came  to  where  they  lived  he  pointed  out  the 
house.  A  couple  of  dark-favored  men  were  working  in  a 
patch  by  the  road,  and  he  waved  his  whip  at  them,  in  a 
way  of  speaking;  but  they  never  made  a  sign.  The 
horses  were  going  slow  then;  and,  for  some  reason  or  other, 
his  little  dog  jumped  to  the  road  and  ran  in  on  the  patch. 
Sirs,  one  of  those  men  spit,  stepped  up  to  the  dog,  and 
kicked  it  into  Kingdom  Come." 

David's  hands  clenched;  and  he  drew  in  a  sharp  sob 
bing  breath. 

"  This  Allen,"  the  other  continued,  "  pulled  in  the  team 
and  drawed  a  gun  from  under  the  seat  before  I  could 
move  a  hand.  You  can  hear  me  —  I  wouldn't  have  kicked 
any  dog  of  his  for  all  the  gold  there  is!  He  got  down 
from  the  stage  and  started  forward,  and  his  face  was 
black;  then  he  stopped,  undecided.  He  stood  studying, 
with  the  two  men  watching  him,  one  leaning  careless  on  a 
grub  hoe.  Then,  by  heaven,  he  turned  and  rested  the  gun 
on  the  seat,  and  walked  up  to  where  laid  the  last  of  his 
.  dog.  He  picked  it  up,  and  says  he: 

"  '  Hatburn,  I  got  Government  mail  on  that  stage  to  get 
in  under  contract,  and  there's  a  passenger  too  —  paid  to 
Crabapple;  but  when  I  get  them  two  things  done  I'm 


THE   HAPPY    END 

coming  back  to  kill  you  two  dead  to  hear  the  last  trumpet.' 

"  The  one  on  the  hoe  laughed;  but  the  other  picked  up 
a  stone  like  my  two  fists  and  let  Allen  have  it  in  the  back. 
It  surprised  him  like;  he  stumbled  forward,  and  the  other 
stepped  out  and  laid  the  hoe  over  his  head.  It  missed 
him  mostly,  but  enough  landed  to  knock  Allen  over.  He 
rolled  into  the  ditch,  like,  by  the  road;  and  then  Hatburn 
jumped  down  on  him,  deliberate,  with  lumbermen's  irons 
in  his  shoes." 

David  was  conscious  of  an  icy  flood  pouring  through 
him;  a  revulsion  of  grief  and  fury  that  blinded  him. 
Tears  welled  over  his  fresh  cheeks  in  an  audible  crying. 
But  he  was  silenced  by  the  aspect  of  his  father.  Hunter 
Kinemon 's  tender  blue  eyes  had  changed  apparently  into 
bits  of  polished  steel;  his  mouth  was  pinched  until  it  was 
only  a  line  among  the  other  lines  and  seaming  of  his  worn 
face. 

"  I'd  thank  you  to  drive  the  stage  into  Crabapple,  Ed," 
he  said;  "  and  if  you  see  the  doctor  coming  over  the  moun 
tain  —  he's  been  rung  up  for  —  ask  him,  please  sir,  will  he 
hurry."  He  turned  and  walked  abruptly  away,  followed 
by  David. 

Allen  lay  under  the  gay  quilt  in  the  Kinemons'  big  bed. 
His  stained  clothes  drooped  from  a  chair  where  Mrs. 
Kinemon  had  flung  them.  Allen's  face  was  like  white 
paper;  suddenly  it  had  grown  as  thin  and  sharp  as  an  old 
man's.  Only  a  slight  quiver  of  his  eyelids  showed  that  he 
was  not  dead. 

Hunter  Kinemon  sat  on  the  couch,  obviously  waiting  for 
the  doctor.  He,  too,  looked  queer,  David  thought.  He 
wished  his  father  would  break  the  dreadful  silence  gath- 

[168] 


TOL'ABLE   DAVID 

ering  over  them;  but  the  only  sound  was  the  stirring  of 
the  woman  in  the  kitchen,  boiling  a  pot  of  water.  Allen 
moved  and  cried  out  in  a  knifelike  agony,  and  a  flicker  of 
suffering  passed  over  his  father's  face. 

An  intolerable  hour  dragged  out  before  the  doctor  ar 
rived  ;  and  then  David  was  driven  from  the  room.  He  sat 
outside  on  the  portico,  listening  to  the  passage  of  feet  about 
Allen  in  a  high  shuddering  protest.  David's  hands  and 
feet  were  still  cold,  but  he  was  conscious  of  an  increasing 
stillness  within,  an  attitude  not  unlike  his  father's.  He 
held  out  an  arm  and  saw  that  it  was  as  steady  as  a  beam 
of  the  stoop  roof.  He  was  without  definite  plan  or  knowl 
edge  of  what  must  occur;  but  he  told  himself  that  any  de 
cision  of  Hunter  Kinemon's  must  not  exclude  him. 

There  were  four  Hatburns;  but  two  Kinemons  were 
better;  and  he  meant  his  father  and  himself,  for  he  knew 
instinctively  that  Allen  was  badly  hurt.  Soon  there  would 
be  no  Hatburns  at  all.  And  then  the  law  could  do  as  it 
pleased.  It  seemed  to  David  a  long  way  from  the  valley, 
from  Allen  broken  in  bed,  to  the  next  term  of  court  — 
September  —  in  Crabapple.  The  Kinemons  could  pro 
tect,  revenge,  their  own. 

The  doctor  passed  out,  and  David  entered  where  his 
mother  was  bent  above  her  elder  son.  Hunter  Kine- 
mon,  with  a  blackened  rag,  was  wiping  the  lock  of  an 
old  but  efficient  repeating  rifle.  His  motions  were  unhur 
ried,  careful.  Mrs.  Kinemon  gazed  at  him  with  blanching 
lips,  but  she  interposed  no  word.  There  was  another  rifle, 
David  knew,  in  the  long  cupboard  by  the  hearth;  and  he 
was  moving  to  secure  it  when  his  father's  voice  halted  him 
in  the  middle  of  the  floor. 

[169] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

"  You  David,"  he  said,  "  I  want  you  to  stop  along  here 
with  your  mother.  It  ain't  fit  for  her  to  be  left  alone  with 
Allen,  and  there's  a  mess  of  little  things  for  doing.  I 
want  those  cows  milked  dry,  and  catch  in  those  little  Domi- 
nicker  chickens  before  that  old  gander  eats  them  up." 

David  was  about  to  protest,  to  sob  out  a  passionate  re 
fusal,  when  a  glimpse  of  his  father's  expression  silenced 
him.  He  realized  that  the  slightest  argument  would  be 
worse  than  futile.  There  wasn't  a  particle  of  familiar 
feeling  in  the  elder's  voice;  suddenly  David  was  afraid  of 
him.  Hunter  Kinemon  slipped  a  number  of  heavily 
greased  cartridges  into  the  rifle's  magazine.  Then  he  rose 
and  said: 

"Well,  Mattie?" 

His  wife  laid  her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Hunter,"  she  told  him,  "  you've  been  a  mighty  sweet 
and  good  husband."  He  drew  his  hand  slowly  and  lov 
ingly  across  her  cheek. 

"  I'm  sorry  about  this,  Mattie,"  he  replied;  "  I've  been 
powerful  happy  along  with  you  and  all  of  us.  David,  be 
a  likely  boy."  He  walked  out  of  the  room,  across  the 
grass  to  the  stable  shed. 

"  He's  going  to  drive  to  Elbow  Barren,"  David  mut 
tered;  "  and  he  hadn't  ought  to  have  left  me  to  tend  the 
cows  and  chickens.  That's  for  a  woman  to  do.  I  ought 
to  be  right  along  with  him  facing  down  those  Hatburns. 
I  can  shoot,  and  my  hand  is  steady  as  his." 

He  stood  in  the  doorway,  waiting  for  the  reappearance 
of  his  father  with  the  roan  horse  to  hitch  to  their  old 
buggy.  It  didn't  occur  to  David  to  wonder  at  the  fact  that 
the  other  was  going  alone  to  confront  four  men.  The 

[170] 


TOL'ABLE   DAVID 

Kinemons  had  a  mort  of  friends  who  would  have  gladly 
accompanied,  assisted  Hunter;  but  this,  the  boy  told  him 
self,  was  their  own  affair  —  their  own  pride. 

From  within  came  the  sound  of  his  mother,  crying 
softly,  and  of  Allen  murmuring  in  his  pain.  David  was 
appalled  by  the  swift  change  that  had  fallen  over  them  — 
the  breaking  up  of  his  entire  world,  the  shifting  of  every 
hope  and  plan.  He  was  appalled  and  confused;  the 
thoughtless  unquestioning  security  of  his  boyhood  had 
been  utterly  destroyed.  He  looked  about  dazed  at  the 
surrounding  scene,  callous  in  its  total  carelessness  of 
Allen's  injury,  his  haggard  father  with  the  rifle.  The 
valley  was  serenely  beautiful ;  doves  were  calling  from  the 
eaves  of  the  barn;  a  hen  clucked  excitedly.  The  western 
sky  was  a  single  expanse  of  primrose  on  which  the 
mountains  were  jagged  and  blue. 

He  had  never  known  the  elder  to  be  so  long  getting 
the  bridle  on  the  roan;  the  buggy  was  drawn  up  outside. 
An  uneasy  tension  increased  within  him  —  a  pressing  ne 
cessity  to  see  his  father  leading  out  their  horse.  He 
didn't  come,  and  finally  David  was  forced  to  walk  over  to 
the  shed. 

The  roan  had  been  untied,  and  turned  as  the  boy 
entered;  but  David,  at  first,  failed  to  find  Hunter  Kine- 
mon;  then  he  almost  stepped  on  his  hand.  His  father 
lay  across  a  corner  of  the  earthen  floor,  with  the  bridle 
tangled  in  stiff  fingers,  and  his  blue  eyes  staring  blankly 
up. 

David  stifled  an  exclamation  of  dread,  and  forced  him 
self  to  bend  forward  and  touch  the  gray  face.  Only  then 
he  realized  that  he  was  looking  at  death.  The  pain  in  his 

[171] 


THE   HAPPY    END 

father's  back  had  got  him  at  last!  The  rifle  had  been 
carefully  placed  against  the  wall;  and,  without  realizing 
the  significance  of  his  act,  David  picked  it  up  and  laid 
the  cold  barrel  against  his  rigid  young  body. 


IV 

On  the  evening  after  Hunter  Kinemon's  burial  in  the 
rocky  steep  graveyard  above  Crabapple,  David  and  his 
mother  sat,  one  on  the  couch,  the  other  in  her  creaking 
rocking-chair,  lost  in  heavy  silence.  Allen  moved  in  a 
perpetual  uneasy  pain  on  the  bed,  his  face  drawn  and 
fretful,  and  shadowed  by  a  soft  young  beard.  The  ward 
robe  doors  stood  open,  revealing  a  stripped  interior; 
wooden  chairs  were  tied  back  to  back;  and  two  trunks  — 
one  of  mottled  paper,  the  other  of  ancient  leather  —  stood 
by  the  side  of  a  willow  basket  filled  with  a  miscellany  of 
housekeeping  objects. 

What  were  left  of  the  Kinemons  were  moving  into  a 
small  house  on  the  edge  of  Crabapple;  Senator  Gait  had 
already  secured  another  tenant  for  the  care  of  his  bottom 
acres  and  fat  herds.  The  night  swept  into  the  room, 
fragrant  and  blue,  powdered  with  stars;  the  sheep  bells 
sounded  in  a  faintly  distant  clashing ;  a  whippoorwill  beat 
its  throat  out  against  the  piny  dark. 

An  overpowering  melancholy  surged  through  David; 
though  his  youth  responded  to  the  dramatic,  the  tragic 
change  that  had  enveloped  them,  at  the  same  time  he  was 
reluctant  to  leave  the  farm,  the  valley  with  its  trout  and 
ground  hogs,  its  fox  holes  and  sap  boilings.  These  feel 
ings  mingled  in  the  back  of  his  consciousness;  his  active 

[172] 


TOL'ABLE   DAVID 

thoughts  were  all  directed  toward  the  time  when,  with  the 
rifle,  the  obligation  that  he  had  picked  up  practically  from 
his  dead  father's  hand,  he  would  walk  up  to  the  Hatburn 
place  and  take  full  payment  for  Allen's  injury  and  their 
paternal  loss. 

He  felt  uneasily  that  he  should  have  gone  before 
this  —  at  once;  but  there  had  been  a  multitude  of  small 
duties  connected  with  the  funeral,  intimate  things  that 
could  not  be  turned  over  to  the  kindest  neighbors ;  and  the 
ceremony  itself,  it  seemed  to  him,  should  be  attended  by 
dignity  and  repose. 

Now,  however,  it  was  over;  and  only  his  great  duty  re 
mained,  filling  the  entire  threshold  of  his  existence.  He 
had  no  plan ;  only  a  necessity  to  perform.  It  was  possible 
that  he  would  fail  —  there  were  four  Hatburns;  and  that 
chance  depressed  him.  If  he  were  killed  there  was  no  one 
else,  for  Allen  could  never  take  another  step.  That  had 
been  disclosed  by  the  most  casual  examination  of  his 
injury.  Only  himself,  David,  remained  to  uphold  the 
pride  of  the  Kinemons. 

He  gazed  covertly  at  his  mother;  she  must  not,  certainly, 
be  warned  of  his  course;  she  was  a  woman,  to  be  spared  the 
responsibility  borne  by  men.  A  feeling  of  her  being  under 
his  protection,  even  advice,  had  grown  within  him  since 
he  had  discovered  the  death  in  the  stable  shed.  This  had 
not  changed  his  aspect  of  blossoming  youth,  the  intense 
blue  candor  of  his  gaze;  he  sat  with  his  knees  bent  boy 
ishly,  his  immature  hands  locked  behind  his  head. 

An  open  wagon,  piled  with  blankets,  carried  Allen  to 
Crabapple,  and  Mrs.  Kinemon  and  David  followed  in  the 
buggy,  a  great  bundle,  folded  in  the  bright  quilt,  roped 

[173] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

behind.  They  soon  crossed  the  range  and  dropped  into  a 
broader  valley.  Crabapple  lay  on  a  road  leading  from 
mountain  wall  to  wall,  the  houses  quickly  thinning  out 
into  meadow  at  each  end. 

A  cross-roads  was  occupied  by  three  stores  and  the  court 
house,  a  square  red-brick  edifice  with  a  classic  white  por 
tico  and  high  lantern;  and  it  was  out  from  that,  where  the 
highway  had  degenerated  into  a  sod-cut  trail,  that  the 
future  home  of  the  Kinemons  lay.  It  was  a  small  somber 
frame  dwelling,  immediately  on  the  road,  with  a  rain- 
washed  patch  rising  abruptly  at  the  back.  A  dilapidated 
shed  on  the  left  provided  a  meager  shelter  for  the  roan; 
and  there  was  an  aged  and  twisted  apple  tree  over  the 
broken  pump. 

"  You'll  have  to  get  at  that  shed,  David,"  his  mother 
told  him;  "the  first  rain  would  drown  anything  inside." 

She  was  settling  Allen  on  the  couch  with  the  ragged 
sheepskin.  So  he  would;  but  there  was  something  else  to 
attend  to  first.  He  would  walk  over  to  Elbow  Barren 
to-morrow.  He  involuntarily  laid  his  hand  on  the  barrel 
of  the  rifle,  temporarily  leaned  against  a  table,  when  his 
mother  spoke  sharply  from  an  inner  doorway. 

"You  David,"  she  said;  "come  right  out  into  the 
kitchen." 

There  he  stood  before  her,  with  his  gaze  stubbornly  fixed 
on  the  bare  floor,  his  mouth  tight  shut. 

"  David,"  she  continued,  her  voice  now  lowered,  fluc 
tuating  with  anxiety,  "  you  weren't  reckoning  on  paying 
off  them  Hatburns?  You  never?"  She  halted,  gazing 
at  him  intently.  "  Why,  they'd  shoot  you  up  in  no  time ! 

You  are  nothing  but  a " 

[174] 


TOL'ABLE    DAVID 

"  You  can  call  me  a  boy  if  you've  a  mind  to,"  he  inter 
rupted;  "  and  maybe  the  Hatburns'll  kill  me  —  and  maybe 
they  won't.  But  there's  no  one  can  hurt  Allen  like  that 
and  go  plumb,  sniggering  free;  not  while  I  can  move  and 
hold  a  gun." 

"  I  saw  a  look  to  you  that  was  right  manlike  a  week  or 
two  back,"  she  replied;  "  and  I  said  to  myself:  '  There's 
David  growing  up  overnight.'  I  favored  it,  too,  though 
1  didn't  want  to  lose  you  that  way  so  soon.  And 
only  last  night  I  said  again:  'Thank  God,  David's  a 
man  in  his  heart,  for  all  his  pretty  cheeks!  '  I  thought  I 
could  build  on  you,  with  me  getting  old  and  Allen  never 
taking  a  mortal  step.  Priest  would  give  you  a  place,  and 
glad,  in  the  store  —  the  Kinemons  are  mighty  good  people. 
I  had  it  all  fixed  up  like  that,  how  we'd  live  here  and  pay 
regular. 

"  Oh,  I  didn't  say  nothing  to  your  father  when  he  started 
out  —  he  was  too  old  to  change ;  but  I  hoped  you  would  be 
different.  I  hoped  you  would  forget  your  own  feeling,  and 
see  Allen  there  on  his  back,  and  me  .  .  .  getting  along. 
You're  all  we  got,  David.  It's  no  use,  I  reckon;  you'll 
go  like  Allen  and  Hunter,  full  up  with  your  own  pride  and 

never "     She  broke  off,  gazing  bitterly  at  her  hands 

folded  in  her  calico  lap. 

A  new  trouble  filled  David's  heart.  Through  the  open 
doorway  he  could  see  Allen,  twisting  on  the  couch;  his 
mother  was  older,  more  worn,  than  he  had  realized.  She 
had  failed  a  great  deal  in  the  past  few  days.  She  was 
suddenly  stripped  of  her  aspect  of  authority,  force;  sud 
denly  she  appeared  negative,  dependent.  A  sharp  pity  for 
her  arose  through  his  other  contending  emotions. 

[175] 


THE   HAPPY    END 

"  I  don't  know  how  you  figure  you  will  be  helping  Allen 
by  stepping  off  to  be  shot  instead  of  putting  food  in  his 
mouth,"  she  spoke  again.  "  He's  got  nobody  at  all  but 
you,  David." 

That  was  so;  and  yet 

"  How  can  I  let  those  skunks  set  their  hell  on  us?  "  he 
demanded  passionately.  "  Why,  all  Greenstream  will 
think  I'm  afraid,  that  I  let  the  Hatburns  bust  Allen  and 
kill  my  father.  I  couldn't  stand  up  in  Priest's  store;  I 
couldn't  bear  to  look  at  anybody.  Don't  you  understand 
how  men  are  about  those  things?  " 

She  nodded. 

"  I  can  see,  right  enough  —  with  Hunter  in  the  grave 
yard  and  Allen  with  both  hips  broke.  What  I  can't  see  is 
what  well  do  next  winter;  how  we'll  keep  Allen  warm  and 
fed.  I  suppose  we  can  go  to  the  County  Home." 

But  that,  David  knew,  was  as  disgraceful  as  the  other  — 
his  own  mother,  Allen,  objects  of  public  charity!  His 
face  was  clouded,  his  hands  clenched.  It  was  only  a 
chance  that  he  would  be  killed ;  there  were  four  Hatburns 
though.  His  heart,  he  thought,  would  burst  with  misery; 
every  instinct  fought  for  the  expression,  the  upholding  of 
the  family  prestige,  honor.  A  hatred  for  the  Hatburns 
was  like  a  strangling  hand  at  his  throat. 

"  I  got  to!  "  he  said;  but  his  voice  was  wavering;  the 
dull  conviction  seized  him  that  his  mother  was  right. 

All  the  mountains  would  think  of  him  as  a  coward  — 
that  Kinemon  who  wouldn't  stand  up  to  the  men  who  had 
destroyed  Allen  and  his  father! 

A  sob  heaved  in  his  chest;  rebellious  tears  streamed  over 
[176] 


TOL'ABLE   DAVID 

his  thin  cheeks.     He  was  crying  like  a  baby.     He  threw 
an  arm  up  across  his  eyes  and  stumbled  from  the  room. 


However,  he  had  no  intention  of  clerking  back  of  a 
counter,  of  getting  down  rolls  of  muslin,  papers  of  but 
tons,  for  women,  if  it  could  be  avoided.  Priest's  store 
was  a  long  wooden  structure  with  a  painted  facade  and  a 
high  platform  before  it  where  the  mountain  wagons  un 
loaded  their  various  merchandise  teamed  from  the  railroad, 
fifty  miles  distant.  The  owner  had  a  small  glass-enclosed 
office  on  the  left  as  you  entered  the  store;  and  there  David 
found  him.  He  turned,  gazing  over  his  glasses,  as  the 
other  entered. 

"How's  Allen?"  he  asked  pleasantly.  "I  heard  he 
was  bad;  but  we  certainly  look  to  have  him  back  driving 
stage." 

"  I  came  to  see  you  about  that,"  David  replied.  "  Allen 
can't  never  drive  again;  but,  Mr.  Priest,  sir,  I  can.  Will 
you  give  me  a  try?  " 

The  elder  ignored  the  question  in  the  concern  he  exhib 
ited  for  Allen's  injury. 

"  It  is  a  cursed  outrage!  "  he  declared.  "  Those  Hat- 
burns  will  be  got  up,  or  my  name's  not  Priest!  We'd 
have  them  now,  but  the  jail  wouldn't  keep  them  overnight, 
and  court  three  months  off." 

David  preserved  a  stony  silence  —  the  only  attitude 
possible,  he  had  decided,  in  the  face  of  his  patent  derelic 
tion. 

[177] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

"  Will  you  try  me  on  the  Beaulings  stage?  "  he  repeated. 
"  I've  been  round  horses  all  my  life;  and  I  can  hold  a  gun 
straighter  than  Allen." 

Priest  shook  his  head  negatively. 

"  You  are  too  light  —  too  young,"  he  explained;  "  you 
have  to  be  above  a  certain  age  for  the  responsibility  of  the 
mail.  There  are  some  rough  customers  to  handle.  If 

you  only  had  five  years  more  now We  are  having  a 

hard  time  finding  a  suitable  man.  A  damned  shame  about 
Allen!  Splendid  man!" 

"  Can't  you  give  it  to  me  for  a  week,"  David  persisted, 
"  and  see  how  I  do?  " 

They  would  have  awarded  him  the  position  immediately, 
he  felt,  if  he  had  properly  attended  to  the  Hatburns.  He 
wanted  desperately  to  explain  his  failure  to  Priest,  but  a 
dogged  pride  prevented.  The  storekeeper  was  tapping  on 
an  open  ledger  with  a  pen,  gazing  doubtfully  at  David. 

"  You  couldn't  be  worse  than  the  drunken  object  we 
have  now,"  he  admitted.  "  You  couldn't  hold  the  job 
permanent  yet,  but  I  might  let  you  drive  extra  —  a  day  or 
so  —  till  we  find  a  man.  I'd  like  to  do  what  I  could  for 
Mrs.  Kinemon.  Your  father  was  a  good  man,  a  good 
customer.  .  .  .  Come  and  see  me  again  —  say,  day  after 
to-morrow." 

This  half  promise  partly  rehabilitated  his  fallen  pride. 
There  was  no  sign  in  the  men  he  passed  that  they  held  him 
in  contempt  for  neglecting  to  kill  the  Hatburns;  and  his 
mother  wisely  avoided  the  subject.  She  wondered  a  little 
at  Priest's  considering  him,  even  temporarily,  for  the  stage; 
but  confined  her  wonder  to  a  species  of  compliment. 
David  sat  beside  Allen,  while  the  latter,  between  silent 

[178] 


TOL'ABLE    DAVID 

spaces  of  suffering,  advised  him  of  the  individual  char 
acters  and  attributes  of  the  horses  that  might  come  under 
his  guiding  reins. 

It  seemed  incredible  that  he  should  actually  be  seated 
in  the  driver's  place  on  the  stage,  swinging  the  heavy  whip 
out  over  a  team  trotting  briskly  into  the  early  morning;  but 
there  he  was.  There  were  no  passengers,  and  the  stage 
rode  roughly  over  a  small  bridge  of  loose  boards  beyond 
the  village.  He  pulled  the  horses  into  a  walk  on  the 
mountain  beyond,  and  was  soon  skirting  the  Gait  farm, 
with  its  broad  fields,  where  he  had  lived  as  a  mere  boy. 

David  slipped  his  hand  under  the  leather  seat  and  felt 
the  smooth  handle  of  the  revolver.  Then,  on  an  even 
reach,  he  wrapped  the  reins  about  the  whipstock  and  pub 
licly  filled  and  lighted  his  clay  pipe.  The  smoke  drifted 
back  in  a  fragrant  cloud ;  the  stage  moved  forward  steadily 
and  easily;  folded  in  momentary  forgetfulness,  lifted  by 
a  feeling  of  mature  responsibility,  he  was  almost  happy. 
But  he  swung  down  the  mountain  beyond  his  familiar 
valley,  crossed  a  smaller  ridge,  and  turned  into  a  stony 
sweep  rising  on  the  left. 

It  was  Elbow  Barren.  In  an  instant  a  tide  of  bitter 
ness,  of  passionate  regret,  swept  over  him.  He  saw  the 
Hatburns'  house,  a  rectangular  bleak  structure  crowning  a 
gray  prominence,  with  the  tender  green  of  young  pole 
beans  on  one  hand  and  a  disorderly  barn  on  the  other,  and 
a  blue  plume  of  smoke  rising  from  an  unsteady  stone 
chimney  against  an  end  of  the  dwelling.  No  one  was 
visible. 

Hot  tears  filled  his  eyes  as  the  stage  rolled  along  past 
the  moldy  ditch  into  which  Allen  had  fallen.  The  mangy 

[179] 


THE   HAPPY    END 

cursl  His  grip  tightened  on  the  reins  and  the  team  broke 
into  a  clattering  trot,  speedily  leaving  the  Barren  behind. 
But  the  day  had  been  robbed  of  its  sparkle,  his  position  of 
its  pleasurable  pride.  He  saw  again  his  father's  body  on 
the  earthen  floor  of  the  stable,  the  bridle  in  his  stiff  fingers; 
Allen  carried  into  the  house.  And  he,  David  Kinemon, 
had  had  to  step  back,  like  a  coward  or  a  woman,  and  let 
the  Hatburns  triumph. 

The  stage  drew  up  before  the  Beaulings  post-office  in 
the  middle  of  the  afternoon.  David  delivered  the  mail 
bags,  and  then  led  the  team  back  to  a  stable  on  the 
grassy  verge  of  the  houses  clustered  at  the  end  of  tracks 
laid  precariously  over  a  green  plain  to  a  boxlike  station. 
Beaulings  had  a  short  row  of  unpainted  two-story  struc 
tures,  the  single  street  cut  into  deep  muddy  scars;  stores 
with  small  dusty  windows;  eating  houses  elevated  on  piles; 
an  insignificant  mission  chapel  with  a  tar-papered  roof; 
and  a  number  of  obviously  masked  depots  for  the  illicit 
sale  of  liquor. 

A  hotel,  neatly  painted  white  and  green,  stood  detached 
from  the  main  activity.  There,  washing  his  face  in  a  tin 
basin  on  a  back  porch,  David  had  his  fried  supper,  sat  for 
a  while  outside  in  the  gathering  dusk,  gazing  at  the  crude- 
oil  flares,  the  passing  dark  figures  beyond,  the  still  ob 
scured  immensity  of  mountain  and  forest.  And  then  he 
went  up  to  a  pine  sealed  room,  like  the  heated  interior  of 
a  packing  box,  where  he  partly  undressed  for  bed. 


[180] 


TOL'ABLE   DAVID 
VI 

The  next  mid-morning,  descending  the  sharp  grade  to 
ward  Elbow  Barren,  there  was  no  lessening  of  David's  bit 
terness  against  the  Hatburns.  The  flavor  of  tobacco  died 
in  his  mouth,  he  grew  unconscious  of  the  lurching  heavy 
stage,  the  responsibility  of  the  mail,  all  committed  to  his 
care.  A  man  was  standing  by  the  ditch  on  the  reach  of 
scrubby  grass  that  fell  to  the  road;  and  David  pulled  his 
team  into  the  slowest  walk  possible.  It  was  his  first  actual 
sight  of  a  Hatburn.  He  saw  a  man  middling  tall,  with 
narrow  high  shoulders,  and  a  clay-yellow  countenance, 
extraordinarily  pinched  through  the  temples,  with  minute 
restless  black  eyes.  The  latter  were  the  only  mobile  fea 
ture  of  his  slouching  indolent  pose,  his  sullen  regard.  He 
might  have  been  a  scarecrow,  David  thought,  but  for  that 
glittering  gaze. 

The  latter  leaned  forward,  the  stage  barely  moving,  and 
looked  unwaveringly  at  the  Hatburn  beyond.  He  won 
dered  whether  the  man  knew  him  —  David  Kinemon? 
But  of  course  he  did;  all  the  small  details  of  moun 
tain  living  circulated  with  the  utmost  rapidity  from  clear 
ing  to  clearing.  He  was  now  directly  opposite  the  other; 
he  could  take  out  the  revolver  and  kill  that  Hatburn,  where 
he  stood,  with  one  precise  shot.  His  hand  instinctively 
reached  under  the  seat.  Then  he  remembered  Allen,  for 
ever  dependent  on  the  couch;  his  mother,  who  had  lately 
seemed  so  old.  The  stage  was  passing  the  motionless 
figure.  David  drew  a  deep  painful  breath,  and  swung 
out  his  whip  with  a  vicious  sweep. 

His  pride,  however,  returned  when  he  drove  into  Crab- 
[181] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

apple,  down  the  familiar  street,  past  the  familiar  men  and 
women  turning  to  watch  him,  with  a  new  automatic  meas 
ure  of  attention,  in  his  elevated  position.  He  walked  back 
to  his  dwelling  with  a  slight  swagger  of  hips  and  shoulders, 
and,  with  something  of  a  flourish,  laid  down  the  two  dol 
lars  he  had  been  paid  for  the  trip  to  Beaulings. 

"  I'm  to  drive  again  to-morrow,"  he  stated  to  his  mother 
and  Allen;  "  after  that  Priest  has  a  regular  man.  I  sup 
pose,  then,  I'll  have  to  go  into  the  store." 

The  last  seemed  doubly  difficult  now,  since  he  had 
driven  stage.  As  he  disposed  of  supper,  eating  half  a  pie 
with  his  cracklings  and  greens,  his  mother  moved  from  the 
stove  to  the  table,  refilled  his  plate,  waved  the  paper 
streamers  of  the  fly  brush  above  his  head,  exactly  as  she 
had  for  his  father.  Already,  he  assured  himself,  he  had 
become  a  man. 

The  journey  to  Beaulings  the  following  day  was  an 
unremarkable  replica  of  the  one  before.  He  saw  no  Hat- 
burns  ;  the  sun  wheeled  from  east  to  west  at  apparently  the 
same  speed  as  the  stage;  and  Beaulings  held  its  inevitable 
surge  of  turbulent  lumbermen,  the  oil  flares  made  their 
lurid  note  on  the  vast  unbroken  starry  canopy  of  night. 

The  morning  of  his  return  was  heavy  with  a  wet  low 
vapor.  The  mail  bags,  as  he  strapped  them  to  the  rear 
rack,  were  slippery;  the  dawn  was  a  slow  monotonous 
widening  of  dull  light.  There  were  no  passengers  for 
Crabapple,  and  David,  with  his  coat  collar  turned  up 
about  his  throat,  urged  the  horses  to  a  faster  gait  through 
the  watery  cold. 

The  brake  set  up  a  shrill  grinding,  and  then  the  stage 
passed  Elbow  Barren  in  a  smart  rattle  and  bumping. 

[182] 


TOL'ABLE   DAVID 

After  that  David  slowed  down  to  light  his  pipe.  The 
horses  willingly  lingered,  almost  stopping;  and,  the  mem 
ory  of  the  slippery  bags  at  the  back  of  his  head,  David 
dismounted,  walked  to  the  rear  of  the  stage. 

A  chilling  dread  swept  through  him  as  he  saw,  realized, 
that  one  of  the  Government  sacks  was  missing.  The 
straps  were  loose  about  the  remaining  two;  in  a  minute  or 
more  they  would  have  gone.  Panic  seized  him,  utter  mis 
ery,  at  the  thought  of  what  Priest,  Crabapple,  would  say. 
He  would  be  disgraced,  contemptuously  dismissed  —  a 
failure  in  the  trust  laid  on  him. 

He  collected  his  faculties  by  a  violent  effort;  the  bags, 
he  was  sure,  had  been  safe  coming  down  the  last  mountain ; 
he  had  walked  part  of  the  way,  and  he  was  certain  that  he 
would  have  noticed  anything  wrong.  The  road  was  pow 
erful  bad  through  the  Barren.  .  .  . 

He  got  up  into  the  stage,  backed  the  team  abruptly  on 
its  haunches,  and  slowly  retraced  his  way  to  the  foot  of  the 
descent.  There  was  no  mail  lying  on  the  empty  road. 
David  turned  again,  his  heart  pounding  against  his  ribs, 
tears  of  mortification,  of  apprehension,  blurring  his  vision. 
The  bag  must  have  fallen  here  in  Elbow  Barren.  Sub 
consciously  he  stopped  the  stage.  On  the  right  the  dwell 
ing  of  the  Hatburns  showed  vaguely  through  the  mist.  No 
one  else  could  have  been  on  the  road.  A  troubled  expres 
sion  settled  on  his  glowing  countenance,  a  pondering 
doubt ;  then  his  mouth  drew  into  a  determined  line. 

"  I'll  have  to  go  right  up  and  ask,"  he  said  aloud. 

He  jumped  down  to  the  road,  led  the  horses  to  a  con 
venient  sapling,  where  he  hitched  them.  Then  he  drew  his 
belt  tighter  about  his  slender  waist  and  took  a  step  for- 

[183] 


THE   HAPPY    END 

ward.  A  swift  frown  scarred  his  brow,  and  he  turned 
and  transferred  the  revolver  to  a  pocket  in  his  trousers. 

The  approach  to  the  house  was  rough  with  stones  and 
muddy  clumps  of  grass.  A  track,  he  saw,  circled  the 
dwelling  to  the  back;  but  he  walked  steadily  and  directly 
up  to  the  shallow  portico  between  windows  with  hanging, 
partly  slatted  shutters.  The  house  had  been  painted  dark 
brown  a  long  while  before;  the  paint  had  weathered  and 
blistered  into  a  depressing  harmony  with  the  broken  and 
mossy  shingles  of  the  roof,  the  rust-eaten  and  sagging 
gutters  festooning  the  ragged  eaves. 

David  proceeded  up  the  steps,  hesitated,  and  then,  his 
mouth  firm  and  hand  steady,  knocked.  He  waited  for  an 
apparently  interminable  space,  and  then  knocked  again, 
more  sharply.  Now  he  heard  voices  within.  He  waited 
rigidly  for  steps  to  approach,  the  door  to  open;  but  in 
vain.  They  had  heard,  but  chose  to  ignore  his  summons; 
and  a  swift  cold  anger  mounted  in  him.  He  could  fol 
low  the  path  round  to  the  back;  but,  he  told  himself,  he  — 
David  Kinemon  —  wouldn't  walk  to  the  Hatburns'  kitchen 
door.  They  should  meet  him  at  the  front.  He  beat  again 
on  the  scarred  wood,  waited;  and  then,  in  an  irrepressible 
flare  of  temper,  kicked  the  door  open. 

He  was  conscious  of  a  slight  gasping  surprise  at  the 
dark  moldy-smelling  hall  open  before  him.  A  narrow 
bare  stairway  mounted  above,  with  a  passage  at  one  side, 
and  on  each  hand  entrances  were  shut  on  farther  inte 
riors.  The  scraping  of  a  chair,  talking  came  from  the 
left;  the  door,  he  saw,  was  not  latched.  He  pushed  it 
open  and  entered.  There  was  a  movement  in  the  room 

[184] 


TOL'ABLE   DAVID 

still  beyond,  and  he  walked  evenly  into  what  evidently 
was  a  kitchen. 

The  first  thing  he  saw  was  the  mail  bag,  lyin^ 
a  table.  Then  he  was  meeting  the  concerted  stare  of  four 
men.  One  of  two,  so  similar  that  he  could  not  have  dis 
tinguished  between  them,  he  had  seen  before,  at  the  edge 
of  the  road.  Another  was  very  much  older,  taller,  more 
sallow.  The  fourth  was  strangely  fat,  with  a  great  red 
hanging  mouth.  The  latter  laughed  uproariously,  a  jan 
gling  mirthless  sound  followed  by  a  mumble  of  words 
without  connective  sense.  David  moved  toward  the  mail 
bag: 

"  I'm  driving  stage  and  lost  those  letters.  I'll  take 
them  right  along." 

The  oldest  Hatburn,  with  a  pail  in  his  hand,  was  stand 
ing  by  an  opening,  obviously  at  the  point  of  departure 
on  a  small  errand.  He  looked  toward  the  two  similar 
men,  nearer  David. 

"  Boy,"  he  demanded,  "  did  you  kick  in  my  front 
door?  " 

"  I'm  the  Government's  agent,"  David  replied.  "  I've 
got  to  have  the  mail.  I'm  David  Kinemon  too;  and  I 
wouldn't  step  round  to  your  back  door,  Hatburn  —  not  if 
there  was  a  boiling  of  you !  " 

"  You'll  learn  you  this,"  one  of  the  others  broke  in : 
"  it  will  be  the  sweetest  breath  you  ever  draw'd  when  you 
get  out  that  back  door!  " 

The  elder  moved  on  to  the  pounded  earth  beyond. 
Here,  in  their  presence,  David  felt  the  loathing  for  the 
Hatburns  a  snake  inspires  —  dusty  brown  rattlers  and 

[185] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

silent  cottonmouths.  His  hatred  obliterated  every  other 
feeling  but  a  dim  consciousness  of  the  necessity  to  recover 
the  mail  bag.  He  was  filled  with  an  overpowering  longing 
to  revenge  Allen;  to  mark  them  with  the  payment  of  his 
father,  dead  in  the  stable  shed. 

His  objective  senses  were  abnormally  clear,  cold:  he 
saw  every  detail  of  the  Hatburns'  garb  —  the  soiled  shirts 
with  buttoned  pockets  on  their  left  breasts;  the  stained 
baggy  breeches  in  heavy  boots  —  such  boots  as  had 
stamped  Allen  into  nothingness;  dull  yellow  faces  and 
beady  eyes;  the  long  black  hair  about  their  dark  ears. 

The  idiot  thrust  his  fingers  into  his  loose  mouth,  his 
shirt  open  on  a  hairy  pendulous  chest.  The  Hatburn 
who  had  not  yet  spoken  showed  a  row  of  tobacco-brown 
broken  teeth. 

"  He  mightn't  get  a  heave  on  that  breath,"  he  asserted. 

The  latter  lounged  over  against  a  set  of  open  shelves 
where,  David  saw,  lay  a  heavy  rusted  revolver.  Hatburn 
picked  up  the  weapon  and  turned  it  slowly  in  his  thin 
grasp. 

"  I'm  carrying  the  mail,"  David  repeated,  his  hand 
on  the  bag.  "  You've  got  no  call  on  this  or  on  me." 

He  added  the  last  with  tremendous  effort.  It  seemed 
unspeakable  that  he  should  be  there,  the  Hatburns  before 
him,  and  merely  depart. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  putting  the  stage  under  a  soft 
little  strawberry  like  that?  "  the  other  inquired. 

For  answer  there  was  a  stunning  report,  a  stinging  odor 
of  saltpeter;  and  David  felt  a  sharp  burning  on  his  shoul 
der,  followed  by  a  slow  warmish  wet,  spreading. 

"  I  didn't  go  to  do  just  that  there!  "  the  Hatburn  who 
[186] 


TOL'ABLE    DAVID 

had  fired  explained.     "  I  wanted  to  clip  his  ear,  but  he 
twitched  like." 

David  picked  up  the  mail  bag  and  took  a  step  backward 
in  the  direction  he  had  come.  The  other  moved  between 
him  and  the  door. 

"  If  you  get  out,"  he  said,  "  it'll  be  through  the  hog- 
wash." 

David  placed  the  bag  on  the  floor,  stirred  by  a  sudden 
realization  —  he  had  charge  of  the  stage,  official  respon 
sibility  for  the  mail.  He  was  no  longer  a  private  indi 
vidual;  what  his  mother  had  commanded,  entreated,  had 
no  force  here  and  now.  The  Hatburns  were  unlawfully 
detaining  him. 

As  this  swept  over  him,  a  smile  lighted  his  fresh  young 
cheeks,  his  frank  mouth,  his  eyes  like  innocent  flowers. 
Hatburn  shot  again ;  this  time  the  bullet  flicked  at  David's 
old  felt  hat.  With  his  smile  lingering  he  smoothly  leveled 
the  revolver  from  his  pocket  and  shot  the  mocking  figure 
in  the  exact  center  of  the  pocket  patched  on  his  left  breast. 

David  wheeled  instantly,  before  the  other  Hatburn  run 
ning  for  him,  and  stopped  him  with  a.  bullet  as  remorse 
lessly  placed  as  the  first.  The  two  men  on  the  floor 
stiffened  grotesquely  and  the  idiot  crouched  in  a  corner, 
whimpering. 

David  passed  his  hand  across  his  brow;  then  he  bent 
and  grasped  the  mail  bag.  He  was  still  pausing  when  the 
remaining  Hatburn  strode  into  the  kitchen.  The  latter 
whispered  a  sharp  oath.  David  shifted  the  bag;  but  the 
elder  had  him  before  he  could  bring  the  revolver  up.  A 
battering  blow  fell,  knocked  the  pistol  clattering  over  the 
floor,  and  David  instinctively  clutched  the  other's  wrist. 
[187] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

The  blows  multiplied,  beating  David  into  a  daze, 
through  which  a  single  realization  persisted  —  he  must 
not  lose  his  grip  upon  the  arm  that  was  swinging  him 
about  the  room,  knocking  over  chairs,  crashing  against  the 
table,  even  drawing  him  across  the  hot  iron  of  the  stove. 
He  must  hold  on ! 

He  saw  the  face  above  him  dimly  through  the  deepening 
mist;  it  seemed  demoniacal,  inhuman,  reaching  up  to  the 
ceiling  —  a  yellow  giant  bent  on  his  destruction.  .  .  . 

His  mother,  years  ago,  lives  away,  had  read  to  them  — 
to  his  father  and  Allen  and  himself  —  about  a  giant,  a 
giant  and  David ;  and  in  the  end 

He  lost  all  sense  of  the  entity  of  the  man  striving  to 
break  him  against  the  wooden  angles  of  the  room;  he  had 
been  caught,  was  twisting,  in  a  great  storm;  a  storm  with 
thunder  and  cruel  flashes  of  lightning;  a  storm  hammering 
and  hammering  at  him.  .  .  .  Must  not  lose  his  hold  on  — 
on  life !  He  must  stay  fast  against  everything !  It  wasn't 
his  hand  gripping  the  destructive  force  towering  above  him, 
but  a  strange  quality  within  him,  at  once  within  him  and 
aside,  burning  in  his  heart  and  directing  him  from  without. 

The  storm  subsided;  out  of  it  emerged  the  livid  face  of 
Hatburn;  and  then,  quite  easily,  he  pitched  David  back 
across  the  floor.  He  lay  there  a  moment  and  then  stirred, 
partly  rose,  beside  the  mail  bag.  His  pistol  was  lying  be 
fore  him ;  he  picked  it  up. 

The  other  was  deliberately  moving  the  dull  barrel  of  a 
revolver  up  over  his  body.  A  slurp  sense  of  victory  pos 
sessed  David,  and  he  whispered  his  brother's  name.  Hat- 
burn  fired  —  uselessly.  The  other's  battered  lips  smiled. 

[188] 


TOL'ABLE    DAVID 

Goliath,  that  was  the  giant's  name.  He  shot  easily,  se 
curely  —  once. 

Outside,  the  mail  bag  seemed  weighted  with  lead.  He 
swayed  and  staggered  over  the  rough  declivity  to  the  road. 
It  required  a  superhuman  effort  to  heave  the  pack  into  the 
stage.  The  strap  with  which  he  had  hitched  the  horses 
had  turned  into  iron.  At  last  it  was  untied.  He  clam 
bered  up  to  the  enormous  height  of  the  driver's  seat,  un 
wrapped  the  reins  from  the  whipstock,  and  the  team 
started  forward. 

He  swung  to  the  lurching  of  the  stage  like  an  inverted 
pendulum;  darkness  continually  thickened  before  his 
vision;  waves  of  sickness  swept  up  to  his  head.  He  must 
keep  the  horses  on  the  road,  forward  the  Government  mail ! 

A  grim  struggle  began  between  his  beaten  flesh,  a 
terrible  weariness,  and  that  spirit  which  seemed  to  be  at 
once  a  part  of  him  and  a  voice.  He  wiped  the  blood  from 
his  young  brow;  from  his  eyes  miraculously  blue  like  an 
ineffable  May  sky. 

"  Just  a  tol'able  David,"  he  muttered  weakly  — "  only 
just  tol' able!" 


[189] 


BREAD 


THE  train  rolling  rapidly  over  the  broad  salt 
meadows  thunderously  gntered  the  long  shed  of 
the  terminal  at  the  sea.  August  Turnbull  rose 
from  his  seat  in  the  Pullman  smoking  compartment  and 
took  down  the  coat  hanging  beside  him.  It  was  gray 
flannel;  in  a  waistcoat  his  shirt  sleeves  were  a  visible 
heavy  mauve  silk,  and  there  was  a  complication  of  gold 
chains  about  his  lower  pockets.  Above  the  coat  a  finely 
woven  Panama  hat  with  a  narrow  brim  had  rested,  and 
with  that  now  on  his  head  he  moved  arrogantly  toward  the 
door. 

He  was  a  large  man,  past  the  zenith  of  life,  but  still 
vigorous  in  features  and  action.  His  face  was  full,  and, 
wet  from  the  heat,  he  mopped  it  with  a  heavy  linen  hand 
kerchief.  August  Turnbull's  gaze  was  steady  and  light 
blue;  his  nose  was  so  heavy  that  it  appeared  to  droop  a 
little  from  sheer  weight,  almost  resting  on  the  mustache 
brushed  out  in  a  horizontal  line  across  prominent  lips; 
while  his  neck  swelled  in  a  glowing  congestion  above  a 
wilting  collar. 

He  nodded  to  several  men  in  the  narrow  corridor  of  the 
car;  men  like  himself  in  luxurious  summer  clothes,  but  for 
the  most  part  fatter;  then  in  the  shed,  looking  about  in 
vain  for  Bernard,  his  son-in-law,  he  proceeded  to  the  street, 
where  his  automobile  was  waiting.  It  was  a  glittering 

[193] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

landaulet,  folded  back  and  open.  Thrusting  a  wadded 
evening  paper  into  a  crevice  he  sank  in  an  upholstered 
corner  while  his  chauffeur  skillfully  worked  out  through  a 
small  confusion  of  similar  motor  activity.  Before  him  a 
carved  glass  vase  set  in  a  bracket  held  smilax  and  yellow 
rosebuds,  and  he  saw  on  the  floor  a  fallen  gold  powder 
box. 

Picking  it  up  his  face  was  suffused  by  a  darker  tide; 
this  was  the  result  of  stooping  and  the  angry  realization 
that  in  spite  of  his  prohibition  Louise  had  been  using  the 
landaulet  again.  She  must  be  made  to  understand  that  he, 
her  father,  had  an  absolute  authority  over  his  family  and 
property.  Marriage  to  Bernard  Foster  did  not  relieve  her 
from  obedience  to  the  head  of  the  house.  Bernard  had  a 
car  as  well  as  himself ;  yet  August  Turnbull  knew  that  his 
son-in-law  —  at  heart  a  stingy  man  —  encouraged  her  to 
burn  the  parental  gasoline  in  place  of  his  own.  Turned 
against  the  public  Bernard's  special  quality  was  admira 
ble;  he  was  indeed  more  successful,  richer,  than  August 
had  been  at  the  other's  age;  but  Louise  and  her  husband 
would  have  to  recognize  his  precedence. 

They  were  moving  faster  now  on  a  broad  paved  avenue 
bound  with  steel  tracks.  A  central  business  section  was 
left  for  a  more  unpretentious  region  —  small  open  fruit 
and  fish  stands,  dingy  lodging  places,  drab  corner  saloons, 
with,  at  the  intervals  of  the  cross  streets,  fleet  glimpses  of 
an  elevated  boardwalk  and  the  luminous  space  of  the  sea. 
Though  the  day  was  ending  there  was  no  thinning  of  the 
vaporous  heat,  and  a  sodden  humanity,  shapeless  in  bath 
ing  suits,  was  still  reluctantly  moving  away  from  the  beach. 

Groups  of  women  with  their  hair  in  trailing  wet  wisps 
[194] 


BREAD 

and  short  uneven  skirts  dripping  on  the  pavements,  gaunt 
children  in  scant  haphazard  garb  surged  across  the  broad 
avenue  or  with  shrill  admonishments  stood  in  isolated 
helpless  patches  amid  the  swift  and  shining  procession  of 
automobiles. 

August  Turnbull  was  disturbed  by  the  sudden  arrest  of 
his  progress,  and  gazing  out  saw  the  insignificant  cause  of 
delay.  He  had  again  removed  his  hat  and  a  frown  drew 
a  visible  heavy  line  between  his  eyes. 

"  More  police  are  needed  for  these  crossings,"  he  com 
plained  to  the  chauffeur;  "  there  is  the  same  trouble  every 
evening.  The  city  shouldn't  encourage  such  rabbles;  they 
give  the  place  a  black  eye." 

All  the  immediate  section,  he  silently  continued,  ought 
to  be  torn  down  and  rebuilt  in  solid  expensive  structures. 
It  made  him  hot  and  uncomfortable  just  to  pass  through 
the  shabby  quarter.  The  people  in  it  were  there  for  the 
excellent  reason  that  they  lacked  the  ambition,  the  force 
to  demand  better  things.  They  got  what  they  deserved. 

August  Turnbull  made  an  impatient  movement  of  con 
tempt;  the  world,  success,  was  for  the  strong  men,  the  men 
who  knew  what  they  wanted  and  drove  for  it  in  a  straight 
line.  There  was  a  great  deal  of  foolishness  in  the  air  at 
present  —  the  war  was  largely  responsible;  though,  on  the 
other  hand,  the  war  would  cure  a  lot  of  nonsense.  But 
America  in  particular  was  rotten  with  sentimentality;  it 
was  that  mainly  which  had  involved  them  here  in  a  purely 
European  affair.  Getting  into  it  had  been  bad  business. 

Nowhere  was  the  nation's  failing  more  evident  than  in 
the  attitude  toward  women.  It  had  always  been  maudlin ; 
and  now,  long  content  to  use  their  advantages  in  small 
[195] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

ways,  women  would  become  a  serious  menace  to  the  coun 
try  generally.  He  had  admitted  their  economic  value 
—  they  filled  every  possible  place  in  the  large  estab 
lishment  of  the  Turnbull  Bakery;  rather,  they  performed 
all  the  light  manual  labor.  There  they  were  more  satis 
factory  than  men,  more  easily  controlled  —  yes,  and 
cheaper.  But  in  Congress,  voting,  women  in  communi 
ties  reporting  on  factory  conditions  were  a  dangerous 
nuisance. 

He  had  left  the  poorer  part,  and  the  suavity  of  the  suc 
ceeding  streets  rapidly  increased  to  a  soothing  luxury. 
Wide  cottages  occupied  velvet-green  lawns,  and  the  women 
he  saw  were  of  the  sort  he  approved  —  closely  skirted 
creatures  with  smooth  shoulders  in  transparent  crepe  de 
Chine.  They  invited  a  contemplative  eye,  the  thing  for 
which  they  were  created  —  a  pleasure  for  men;  that  and 
maternity. 

The  automobile  turned  toward  the  sea  and  stopped  at 
his  house  midway  in  the  block.  It  was  a  square  dwelling 
painted  white  with  a  roof  of  tapestry  slate,  and  broad 
awning-covered  veranda  on  the  sea.  A  sprinkler  was 
flashing  on  the  lawn,  dripping  over  the  concrete  pavement 
and  filling  the  air  with  a  damp  coolness.  No  one  was 
visible  and,  leaving  his  hat  and  coat  on  a  chair  in  an  airy 
hall  furnished  in  black  wicker  and  flowery  chintz  hangings 
on  buff  walls,  he  descended  to  th*  basement  .dressing 
rooms. 

In  his  bathing  suit  he  presented  a  figure  of  vigorous 
glowing  well-being.  Only  the  silvering  hair  at  his  tem 
ples,  the  fatty  bulge  across  the  back  of  his  neck,  and  a 
considerable  stomach  indicated  his  multiplying  years.  He 

[196] 


BREAD 

left  by  a  lower  door,  and  immediately  after  was  on  the 
sand.  The  tide  was  out,  the  lowering  sun  obscured  in  a 
haze,  and  the  sea  undulated  with  a  sullen  gleam.  Two 
men  were  swimming,  and  farther  at  the  left  a  woman  stood 
in  the  water  with  arms  raised  to  her  head.  It  was  cold, 
but  August  Turnbull  marched  out  without  hesitation  and 
threw  himself  forward  with  an  uncompromising  solid 
splash. 

He  swam  adequately,  but  he  had  not  progressed  a  dozen 
feet  before  he  was  conscious  of  a  strong  current  sweeping 
him  up  the  beach,  and  he  regained  his  feet  with  an  angry 
flourish.  The  other  men  came  nearer,  and  he  recognized 
Bernard  Foster,  his  son-in-law,  and  Frederick  Rathe, 
whose  cottage  was  directly  across  the  street  from  the  Turn- 
bulls'. 

Like  August  they  were  big  men,  with  light  hair  and 
eyes.  They  were  very  strong  and  abrupt  in  their  move 
ments,  they  spoke  in  short  harsh  periods,  and  fingered 
mustaches  waxed  and  rolled  into  severe  points. 

"  A  gully  has  cut  in  above,"  Bernard  explained,  indi 
cating  a  point  not  far  beyond  them;  "  it's  over  your  head. 
Watch  where  you  swim."  They  were  moving  away. 

"Are  you  coming  over  to  dinner?"  August  Turnbull 
called  to  Bernard. 

"Can't,"  the  latter  shouted;  "  Victorine  is  sick  again. 
Too  many  chocolate  sundaes." 

Left  alone,  August  dived  and  floated  until  he  was  thor 
oughly  cooled;  then  he  turned  toward  the  beach.  The 
woman,  whose  existence  he  had  forgotten,  was  leaving  at 
the  same  time.  She  approached  at  an  angle,  and  he  was 
admiring  her  slim  figure  when  he  realized  that  it  was  Miss 

[197] 


THE   HAPPY    END 

Beggs,  his  wife's  companion.  He  had  never  seen  her  in 
a  bathing  suit  before.  August  Turnbull  delayed  until  she 
was  at  his  side. 

"  Good  evening."  Her  voice  was  low,  and  she  scarcely 
lifted  her  gaze  from  the  sand. 

He  wondered  why  —  she  had  been  in  his  house  for  a 
month  —  he  had  failed  completely  to  notice  her  previously. 
He  decided  that  it  had  been  because  she  was  so  pale  and 
quiet.  Ordinarily  he  didn't  like  white  cheeks;  and  then 
she  had  been  deceptive;  he  had  subconsciously  thought  of 
her  as  thin. 

She  stopped  and  took  off  her  rubber  cap,  performing  that 
act  slowly,  while  her  body,  in  wet  satin,  turned  like  a 
faultless  statue  of  glistening  black  marble. 

"  Do  you  enjoy  bathing  in  the  ocean?  "  he  asked. 

A  momentary  veiled  glance  accompanied  her  reply. 
"Yes,"  she  said;  "though  I  can't  swim.  I  like  to  be 
beaten  by  the  waves.  I  like  to  fight  against  them." 

She  hesitated,  then  fell  definitely  back;  and  he  was 
forced  to  walk  on  alone. 

His  wife's  companion!  With  the  frown  once  more 
scoring  the  line  between  his  eyes  he  satirically  contrasted 
Miss  Beggs,  a  servant  really,  and  Emmy. 


II 

His  room  occupied  the  front  corner  on  the  sea,  Emmy's 
was  beyond;  the  door  between  was  partly  open  and  he 
could  hear  her  moving  about,  but  with  a  cigarette  and  his 
hair-brushes  he  made  no  acknowledgment  of  her  presence. 

[198] 


BREAD 

The  sun  was  now  no  more  than  a  diffused  gray  glow,  the 
sea  like  unstirred  molten  silver.  The  sound  of  the  muf 
fled  gong  that  announced  dinner  floated  up  the  stairs. 

Below,  the  damask  was  lit  both  by  rose  silk-shaded  can 
dles  and  by  the  radiance  of  a  suspended  alabaster  bowl. 
August  Turnbull  sat  at  the  head  of  a  table  laden  with 
silver  and  crystal  and  flowers.  There  were  individual 
pepper  mills  —  he  detested  adulterated  or  stale  spices  — 
carved  goblets  for  water,  cocktail  glasses  with  enameled 
roosters,  ruby  goblets  like  blown  flowers  and  little  gilt- 
speckled  liqueur  glasses;  there  were  knives  with  steel 
blades,  knives  all  of  silver,  and  gold  fruit  knives;  there 
were  slim  oyster  forks,  entree  forks  of  solid  design,  and 
forks  of  filigree;  a  bank  of  spoons  by  a  plate  that  would 
be  presently  removed,  unused,  for  other  filled  plates. 

Opposite  him  Emmy's  place  was  still  empty,  but  his  son, 
Morice,  in  the  olive  drab  and  bar  of  a  first  lieutenant,  to 
gether  with  his  wife,  was  already  present.  August  was 
annoyed  by  any  delay:  one  of  the  marks  of  a  properly 
controlled  household,  a  house  admirably  conscious  of  the 
importance  of  order  —  and  obedience  —  was  an  utter 
promptness  at  the  table.  Then,  silent  and  unsubstantial 
as  a  shadow,  Emmy  Turnbull  slipped  into  her  seat. 

August  gazed  at  her  with  the  secret  resentment  more 
and  more  inspired  by  her  sickness.  At  first  he  had  been 
merely  dogmatic  —  she  must  recover  under  the  superla 
tive  advice  and  attention  he  was  able  to  summon  for  her. 
Then  his  impatience  had  swung  about  toward  all  doc 
tors —  they  were  a  pack  of  incompetent  fools,  medicine 
was  nothing  more  than  an  organized  swindle.  They  had 
tried  baths,  cures,  innumerable  infallible  treatments  —  to 

[199] 


THE   HAPPY    END 

no  purpose.  Finally  he  had  given  up  all  effort,  all  hope; 
he  had  given  her  up.  And  since  then  it  had  been  difficult 
to  mask  his  resentment. 

The  butler,  a  white  jacket  taking  the  place  of  the  con 
ventional  somber  black,  poured  four  cocktails  from  a  silver 
mixer  and  placed  four  dishes  of  shaved  ice,  lemon  rosettes 
and  minute  pinkish  clams  before  August  Turnbull,  Morice 
and  his  wife,  and  Miss  Beggs,  occupying  in  solitude  a  side 
of  the  table.  Then  he  set  at  Mrs.  Turnbull's  hand  a  glass 
of  milk  thinned  with  limewater  and  an  elaborate  platter 
holding  three  small  pieces  of  zwieback. 

She  could  eat  practically  nothing. 

It  was  the  particular  character  of  her  state  that  specially 
upset  August  Turnbull.  He  was  continually  affronted  by 
the  spectacle  of  Emmy  seated  before  him  sipping  her  di 
luted  milk,  breaking  her  dry  bread,  in  the  midst  of  the 
rich  plenty  he  provided.  Damn  it,  he  admitted,  it  got  on 
his  nerves ! 

The  sting  of  the  cocktail  whipped  up  his  eagerness  for 
the  iced  tender  clams.  His  narrowed  gaze  rested  on 
Emmy;  she  was  actually  seven  years  older  than  he,  but 
from  her  appearance  she  might  be  a  hundred,  a  million. 
There  was  nothing  but  her  painfully  slow  movements  to 
distinguish  her  from  a  mummy. 

The  plates  were  again  removed  and  soup  brought  on,  a 
clear  steaming  amber-green  turtle,  and  with  it  crisp  wheat 
rolls.  Morice's  wife  gave  a  sigh  of  satisfaction  at  the 
latter. 

"  My,"  she  said,  "  they're  elegant!  I'm  sick  and  tired 
of  war  bread." 

She  was  a  pinkish  young  woman  with  regular  features 
[200] 


BREAD 

and  abundant  coppery  hair.  Marriage  had  brought  her 
into  the  Turnbull  family  from  the  chorus  of  a  famous  New 
York  roof  beauty  show.  August  had  been  at  first  dis 
pleased,  then  a  certain  complacency  had  possessed  him 
—  Morice,  who  was  practically  thirty  years  old,  had  no 
source  of  income  other  than  that  volunteered  by  his  father, 
and  it  pleased  the  latter  to  keep  them  depending  uncer 
tainly  on  what  he  was  willing  to  do.  It  insured  just  the 
attitude  from  Rosalie  he  most  enjoyed,  approved,  in  a 
youthful  and  not  unhandsome  woman.  He  liked  her  soft 
scented  weight  hanging  on  his  arm  and  the  perfumed  kiss 
with  which  she  greeted  him  in  the  morning. 

Nevertheless,  at  times  there  was  a  gleam  in  her  eyes  and 
an  expression  at  odds  with  the  perfection  of  her  submis 
sion;  on  several  occasions  Morice  had  approached  him 
armed  with  a  determination  that  he,  August,  knew  had 
been  injected  from  without,  undoubtedly  by  Rosalie. 
Whatever  it  had  been  he  quickly  disposed  of  it,  but  there 
was  a  possibility  that  she  might  some  day  undertake  a 
rebellion;  and  there  was  added  zest  in  the  thought  of  how 
he  would  totally  subdue  her. 

"  It's  a  wonder  something  isn't  said  to  you,"  she  con 
tinued.  "  They're  awfully  strict  about  wheat  now." 

"  That,"  August  Turnbull  instructed  her  heavily,  "  is  a 
subject  we  needn't  pursue." 

The  truth  was  that  he  would  permit  no  interference  with 
what  so  closely  touched  his  comfort.  He  was  not  a  horse 
to  eat  bran.  His  bakery  —  under  inspection  —  conformed 
rigidly  with  the  Government  requirements;  but  he  had  no 
intention  of  spoiling  his  own  dinners.  Any  necessary  con 
servation  could  be  effected  at  the  expense  of  the  riffraff 

[201] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

through  which  he  had  driven  coming  from  the  station. 
Black  bread  was  no  new  experience  to  them. 

He  saw  that  Miss  Beggs'  small  white  teeth  were  crush 
ing  salted  cashew  nuts.  Noticing  her  in  detail  for  the 
first  time  he  realized  that  she  enormously  appreciated  good 
food.  Why  in  thunder,  since  she  ate  so  heartily,  didn't 
she  get  fat  and  rosy!  She  was  one  of  the  thin  kind  — 
yet  not  thin,  he  corrected  himself.  Graceful.  Why,  she 
must  weigh  a  hundred  and  twenty-five  pounds;  and  she 
wasn't  tall. 

The  butler  filled  his  ruby  goblet  from  a  narrow  bottle 
of  Rhine  wine.  It  was  exactly  right,  not  sweet  but  full; 
and  the  man  held  for  his  choice  a  great  platter  of  beef, 
beautifully  carved  into  thick  crimson  slices;  the  bloodlike 
gravy  had  collected  in  its  depression  and  he  poured  it  over 
his  meat. 

"  A  piece  of  this,"  he  told  Emmy  discontentedly,  "  would 
set  you  right  up;  put  something  in  your  veins  besides 
limewater." 

She  became  painfully  upset  at  once  and  fumbled  in  her 
lap,  with  her  face  averted,  as  the  attention  of  the  table 
was  momentarily  directed  at  her.  There  was  an  uncon 
trollable  tremor  of  her  loose  colorless  mouth. 

What  a  wife  for  him,  August  Turnbull!  The  stimu 
lants  and  rich  flavors  and  roast  filled  him  with  a  hum 
ming  vitality ;  he  could  feel  his  heart  beat  —  as  strong,  he 
thought,  as  a  bell.  In  a  way  Emmy  had  deceived  him  — 
she  probably  had  always  been  fragile,  but  was  careful  to 
conceal  it  from  him  at  their  marriage.  It  was  unjust  to 
him.  He  wished  that  she  would  take  her  farcical  meals 

[202] 


BREAD 

in  her  room,  and  not  sit  here  —  a  skeleton  at  the  feast. 
Positively  it  made  him  nervous  to  see  her  —  spoiled  his 
pleasure. 

It  had  become  worse  lately;  he  had  difficulty  in  putting 
her  from  his  mind ;  he  imagined  Emmy  in  conjunction  with 
the  bakery,  of  her  slowly  starving  and  the  thousands  of 
loaves  he  produced  in  a  day.  There  was  something  un 
natural  in  such  a  situation ;  it  was  like  a  mockery  at  him. 

A  vision  of  her  came  to  him  at  the  most  inopportune 
moments,  lingering  until  it  drove  him  into  a  hot  rage  and 
a  pounding  set  up  at  the  back  of  his  neck. 

The  meat  was  brought  back,  and  he  had  more  of  a 
sweet  boiled  huckleberry  pudding.  A  salad  followed,  with 
a  heavy  Russian  dressing.  August  TurnbulFs  breathing 
grew  thicker,  he  was  conscious  of  a  familiar  oppression. 
He  assaulted  it  with  fresh  wine. 

"  I  saw  Bernard  on  the  beach,,"  he  related;  "  Victorine 
is  sick  once  more.  Chocolate  sundaes,  Bernard  said.  She 
is  always  stuffing  herself  at  soda-water  counters  or  with 
candy.  They  oughtn't  to  allow  it;  the  child  should  be 
made  to  eat  at  the  table.  When  she  is  here  she  touches 
nothing  but  the  dessert.  When  I  was  ten  I  ate  every 
thing  or  not  at  all.  But  there  is  no  longer  any  discipline, 
not  only  with  children  but  everywhere." 

"  There  is  a  little  freedom,  though,"  Rosalie  suggested. 

His  manner  clearly  showed  displeasure,  almost  con 
tempt,  and  he  turned  to  Miss  Beggs.  "  What  do  you 
think?  "  he  demanded.  "  I  understand  you  have  been  a 
school-teacher." 

"Oh,  you  are  quite  right,"  she  responded;  "  at  least 
[203] 


THE   HAPPY    END 

about  children,  and  it  is  clear  from  them  that  most  parents 
are  idiotically  lax."  A  blaze  of  discontent,  loathing,  sur 
prisingly  invaded  her  pallid  face. 

"  A  rod  of  iron,"  August  recommended. 

The  contrast  between  his  wife  and  Miss  Beggs  recurred, 
intensified  —  one  an  absolute  wreck  and  the  other  as 
solidly  slender  as  a  birch  tree.  Fate  had  played  a  disgust 
ing  trick  on-  him.  In  the  prime  of  his  life  he  was  tied  to  a 
hopeless  invalid.  It  put  an  unfair  tension  on  him. 
Women  were  charming,  gracious  —  or  else  they  were  noth 
ing.  If  Emmy's  money  had  been  an  assistance  at  first  he 
had  speedily  justified  its  absorption  in  the  business.  She 
owed  him,  her  husband,  everything  possible.  He  suddenly 
pictured  mountains  of  bread,  bread  towering  up  into  the 
clouds,  fragrant  and  appetizing;  and  Emmy,  a  thing  of 
bones,  gazing  wistfully  at  it.  August  Turnbull,  with  a 
feeling  like  panic,  brushed  the  picture  from  his  mind. 

The  dessert  was  apparently  a  bomb  of  frozen  coffee,  but 
the  center  revealed  a  delicious  creamy  substance  flaked 
with  pistache.  The  cold  sweet  was  exactly  what  he  craved, 
and  he  ate  it  rapidly  in  a  curious  mounting  excitement. 
With  the  coffee  he  fingered  the  diminutive  glass  of  golden 
brandy  and  a  long  dark  roll  of  oily  tobacco.  He  lighted 
this  carefully  and  flooded  his  head  with  the  coiling  bluish 
smoke.  Rosalie  was  smoking  a  cigarette  —  a  habit  in 
women  which  he  noisily  denounced.  She  extinguished  it 
in  an  ash  tray,  but  his  anger  lingered,  an  unreasoning  ex 
asperation  that  constricted  his  throat.  Sharply  aware 
of  the  sultriness  of  the  evening  he  went  hastily  out  to  the 
veranda. 

Morice  following  him  with  the  evening  paper  volun- 
[204] 


BREAD 

teered,  "  I  see  German  submarines  are  operating  on  the 
Atlantic  coast." 

His  father  asserted :  "  This  country  is  due  for  a  les 
son.  It  was  anxious  enough  to  get  into  trouble,  and  now 
we'll  find  how  it  likes  some  severe  instruction.  All  the 
news  here  i  bluff  —  the  national  asset.  What  I  hope  is 
that  business  won't  be  entirely  ruined  later." 

"  The  Germans  will  get  the  lesson,"  Rosalie  unexpect 
edly  declared  at  his  shoulder. 

"  You  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about,"  he  re 
plied  decidedly.  "  The  German  system  is  a  marvel,  one 
of  the  wonders  of  civilization." 

She  turned  away,  lightly  singing  a  line  from  one  of  her 
late  numbers:  "  I've  a  Yankee  boy  bound  for  Berlin." 

Morice  stirred  uneasily.  "  They  got  a  Danish  tanker 
somewhere  off  Nantucket,"  he  continued  impotently. 

August  Turnbull  refused  to  be  drawn  into  further 
speech ;  he  inhaled  his  cigar  with  a  replete  bodily  content 
ment.  The  oppression  of  dinner  was  subsiding.  His  pri 
vate  opinion  of  the  war  was  that  it  would  end  without  a 
military  decision  —  he  regarded  the  German  system  as  un- 
smashable  —  and  then,  with  France  deleted  and  England 
swamped  in  internal  politics,  he  saw  an  alliance  of  com 
mon  sense  between  Germany  and  the  United  States. 
The  present  hysteria,  the  sentimentality  he  condemned, 
could  not  continue  to  stand  before  the  pressure  of  mercan 
tile  necessity.  After  all,  the  entire  country  was  not  made 
up  of  fools. 

Morice  and  his  wife  wandered  off  to  the  boardwalk, 
and  he,  August,  must  have  fallen  asleep,  for  he  suddenly 
sat  up  with  a  sensation  of  strangeness  and  dizzy  vision. 

[205] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

He  rose  and  shook  it  off.  It  was  still  light,  and  he  could 
see  Bernard  at  his  automobile,  parked  before  the  latter's 
cottage. 

The  younger  man  caught  sight  of  August  at  the  same 
moment  and  called :  "  We  are  going  to  a  cafe  with  the 
Rathes;  will  you  come?  " 

He  was  still  slightly  confused,  his  head  full,  and  the 
ride,  the  gayety  of  the  crowd,  he  thought,  would  do  him 
good. 

"  Be  over  for  you,"  the  other  added;  and  later  he  was 
crowded  into  a  rear  seat  between  Louise,  his  daughter, 
and  Caroline  Rathe. 

Louise  was  wearing  the  necklace  of  platinum  and  dia 
monds  Bernard  Foster  had  given  her  last  Christmas.  It 
was,  August  admitted  to  himself,  a  splendid  present,  and 
must  have  cost  eighteen  or  twenty  thousand  dollars.  The 
Government  had  made  platinum  almost  prohibitive.  In 
things  of  this  kind  —  the  adornment  of  his  wife,  of,  really, 
himself,  the  extension  of  his  pride  —  Bernard  was  ex 
tremely  generous.  It  was  in  the  small  affairs  such  as  gaso 
line  that  he  was  prudent. 

Both  Caroline  Rathe  and  Louise  were  handsome  women 
handsomely  dressed;  he  was  seated  in  a  nest  of  soft  tulle 
and  ruffled  embroidery,  of  pliant  swaying  bodies.  Their 
satin-shod  feet  had  high  sharp  insteps  in  films  of  black 
lace  and  their  fingers  glittered  with  prismatic  stones. 
Bernard  was  in  front  with  the  chauffeur,  and  Frederick 
Rathe  occupied  a  small  seat  at  the  knees  of  the  three  others. 
He  had  not  made  his  money,  as  had  August  and  Bernard, 
but  inherited  it  with  a  huge  brewery.  Frederick  was 

[206] 


BREAD 

younger  than  the  other  men  too;  but  his  manner  was,  if 
anything,  curter.  He  said  things  about  the  present  war 
that  made  even  August  Turnbull  uneasy. 

He  was  an  unusual  youth,  not  devoted  to  sports  and 
convivial  pleasures  —  as  any  one  might  infer,  viewing  his 
heavy  frame  and  wealth  —  but  something  of  a  reader.  He 
quoted  fragments  from  philosophical  books  about  the  will- 
to-power  and  the  Uebermensch  that  stuck  like  burrs  in 
August  Turnbull's  memory,  furnishing  him  with  labels, 
backing,  for  many  of  his  personally  evolved  convictions 
and  experience. 

They  were  soon  descending  the  steps  to  the  anteroom 
of  the  cafe,  where  the  men  left  their  hats  and  sticks.  As 
they  entered  the  brilliantly  lighted  space  beyond  a  captain 
hurried  forward.  "  Good  evening,  gentlemen,"  he  said 
servilely;  "  Mr.  Turnbull " 

He  ushered  them  to  a  table  by  the  rope  of  an  open  floor 
for  dancing  and  removed  a  reserved  card.  There  he  stood 
attentively  with  a  waiter  at  his  shoulder. 

"  What  will  you  have?  "  Frederick  Rathe  asked  gener 
ally.  "  For  me  nothing  but  beer.  Not  the  filthy  Ameri 
can  stuff."  He  turned  to  the  servants.  "  If  you  still  have 
some  of  the  other.  You  understand?  " 

"  No  beer  for  me!  "  Louise  exclaimed. 

"  Champagne,"  the  captain  suggested. 

She  agreed,  but  Caroline  had  a  fancy  for  something  else. 
August  Turnkill  preferred  a  Scotch  whisky  and  soda. 
The  cafe  was  crowded;  everywhere  drinking  multiplied  in 
an  illuminated  haze  of  cigarettes.  A  slight  girl  in  an  airy 
slip  and  bare  legs  was  executing  a  furious  dance  with  a 

[207] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

powdered  youth  on  the  open  space.  The  girl  whirled 
about  her  partner's  head,  a  rigid  shape  in  a  flutter  of 
white. 

They  stood  limply  answering  the  rattle  of  applause  that 
followed.  A  woman  in  an  extravagantly  low-cut  gown 
took  their  place,  singing.  There  was  no  possibility  of  mis 
taking  her  allusions;  August  smiled  broadly,  but  Louise 
and  Caroline  Rathe  watched  her  with  an  unmoved  sharp 
curiosity.  In  the  same  manner  they  studied  other  women 
in  the  cafe;  more  than  once  August  Turnbull  hastily 
averted  his  gaze  at  the  discovery  that  his  daughter  and  he 
were  intent  upon  the  same  individual. 

"  The  U-boats  are  at  it  again,"  Bernard  commented  in  a 
lowered  voice. 

"  And,  though  it  is  war,"  Frederick  added,  "  every  one 
here  is  squealing  like  a  mouse.  '  Ye  are  not  great  enough 
to  know  of  hatred  and  envy,'  "  he  quoted.  "  *  It  is  the 
good  war  which  halloweth  every  cause.'  " 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't  say  those  things  here,"  his  wife 
murmured. 

"  *  Thou  goest  to  women?  '  "  he  lectured  her  with  mock 
solemnity.  "  '  Do  not  forget  thy  whip!  '  " 

The  whisky  ran  in  a  burning  tide  through  August  Turn- 
bull's  senses.  His  surroundings  became  a  little  blurred, 
out  of  focus;  his  voice  sounded  unfamiliar,  as  though  it 
came  from  somewhere  behind  him.  Fresh  buckets  of  wine 
were  brought,  fresh  polished  glasses.  His  appetite  re 
vived,  and  he  ordered  caviar.  Beyond,  a  girl  in  a  snake- 
like  dress  was  breaking  a  scarlet  boiled  lobster  with  a  nut 
cracker;  her  cigarette  smoked  on  the  table  edge.  Waiters 
passed  bearing  trays  of  steaming  food,  pitchers  of  foam- 

[208] 


BREAD 

ing  beer,  colorless  drinks  with  bobbing  sliced  limes,  pur 
plish  sloe  gin  and  sirupy  cordials.  Bernard's  face  was 
dark  and  there  was  a  splash  of  champagne  on  his  dinner 
shirt.  Louise  was  uncertainly  humming  a  fragment  of 
popular  song.  The  table  was  littered  with  empty  plates 
and  glasses.  Perversely  it  made  August  think  of  Emmy, 
his  wife,  and  acute  dread  touched  him  at  the  mockery  of 
her  wasting  despair. 


The  following  morning,  Thursday,  August  Turnbull 
was  forced  to  go  into  the  city.  He  drove  to  the  Turn- 
bull  Bakery  in  a  taxi  and  dispatched  his  responsibilities  in 
time  for  luncheon  uptown  and  an  early  afternoon  train  to 
the  shore.  The  bakery  was  a  consequential  rectangle  of 
brick,  with  the  office  across  the  front  and  a  court  resound 
ing  with  the  shattering  din  of  ponderous  delivery  trucks. 
All  the  vehicles,  August  saw,  bore  a  new  temporary  label 
advertising  still  another  war  bread;  there  was,  too,  a  sub 
sidiary  patriotic  declaration:  "Win  the  War  With 
Wheat." 

He  was,  as  always,  fascinated  by  the  mammoth  trays 
of  bread,  the  enormous  flood  of  sustenance  produced  as  the 
result  of  his  energy  and  ability.  Each  loaf  was  shut  in 
a  sanitary  paper  envelope;  the  popular  superstition,  sani 
tation,  had  contributed  as  much  as  anything  to  his  marked 
success.  He  liked  to  picture  himself  as  a  great  force, 
a  granary  on  which  the  city  depended  for  life;  it  pleased 
him  to  think  of  thousands  of  people,  men,  women  and  chil- 

[209] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

dren,  waiting  for  his  loaves  or  perhaps  suffering  through 
the  inability  to  buy  them. 

August  left  a  direction  for  a  barrel  of  superlative  flower 
to  be  sent  to  his  cottage,  and  then  with  a  curious  feeling 
of  expectancy  he  departed.  He  was  unable  to  grasp  the 
cause  of  his  sudden  impatience  to  be  again  at  the  sea. 
On  the  train,  in  the  Pullman  smoking  compartment,  his 
coat  swinging  on  a  hook  beside  him,  the  vague  haste  cen 
tered  surprisingly  about  the  person  of  Miss  Beggs.  At 
first  he  was  annoyed  by  the  reality  and  persistence  of  her 
image ;  then  he  slipped  into  an  unquestioning  consideration 
of  her. 

Never  had  he  seen  a  more  healthy  being,  and  that  alone, 
he  told  himself,  was  sufficient  to  account  for  his  interest. 
He  liked  marked  physical  well-being;  particularly,  he 
added,  in  women.  A  sick  wife,  for  example,  was  the  most 
futile  thing  imaginable;  a  wife  should  exist  for  the  com 
fort  and  pleasure  of  her  husband.  What  little  Miss 
Beggs  —  her  name,  he  now  remembered  from  the  checks 
made  out  for  her,  was  Meta  Beggs  —  had  said  was  as 
vigorous  as  herself.  He  realized  that  she  had  a  strong, 
even  rebellious  personality.  That,  in  her,  however,  should 
not  be  encouraged  —  an  engaging  submission  was  the  be 
coming  attitude  for  her  sex. 

He  proceeded  immediately  into  the  ocean,  puffing  stren 
uously  and  gazing  about.  No  women  could  be  seen. 
They  never  had  any  regularity  of  habit,  he  complained 
silently.  After  dinner  —  a  surfeit  of  tenderloin  Borde- 
laise  —  he  walked  up  the  short  incline  to  the  boardwalk, 
where  on  one  of  the  benches  overlooking  the  sparkling 
water  he  saw  a  slight  familiar  figure.  It  was  Miss  Beggs. 

[210] 


BREAD 

Her  eyes  dwelt  on  him  momentarily  and  then  returned  to 
the  horizon. 

"  You  are  a  great  deal  alone,"  he  commented  on  the  far 
end  of  the  bench. 

"  It's  because  I  choose  to  be,"  she  answered  sharply. 

An  expression  of  displeasure  was  audible  in  his  reply, 
"  You  should  have  no  trouble." 

"  I  ought  to  explain,"  she  continued,  her  slim  hands 
clasped  on  shapely  knees;  "  I  mean  that  I  can't  get  what 
I  want." 

"  So  you  prefer  nothing?  " 

She  nodded. 

"  That's  different,"  August  Turnbull  declared.  "  Any 
body  could  see  you're  particular.  Still,  it's  strange  you 
haven't  met  —  well,  one  that  suited  you." 

"  What  good  would  it  do  me  —  a  school-teacher,  and 
now  a  companion!  " 

"  You  might  be  admired  for  those  very  things." 

"  Yes,  by  old  ladies,  male  and  female.  Not  men. 
There's  just  one  attraction  for  them." 

«  Well " 

She  turned  now  and  faced  him  with  a  suppressed  bitter 
energy.  "  Clothes,"  she  said. 

"  That's  nonsense!  "  he  replied  emphatically.  "  Dress 
is  only  incidental." 

"  When  did  you  first  notice  me?  "  she  demanded.  "  In 
bathing.  That  bathing  suit  cost  more  than  any  two  of 
my  dresses.  It  is  absolutely  right."  August  was  con 
fused  by  the  keenness  of  her  perception.  It  wasn't  proper 
for  a  woman  to  understand  such  facts.  He  was  at  a 
loss  for  a  reply.  "  Seven  men  spoke  to  me  in  it  on  one 

[211] 


THE   HAPPY    END 

afternoon.  It  is  no  good  for  you  to  try  to  reassure  me 
with  platitudes;  I  know  better.  I  ought  to,  at  least.'* 

August  Turnbull  was  startled  by  the  fire  of  resentment 
smoldering  under  her  still  pale  exterior.  Why,  she  was 
like  a  charged  battery.  If  he  touched  her,  he  thought, 
sparks  would  fly.  She  was  utterly  different  from  Emmy, 
as  different  as  a  live  flame  from  ashes. 

It  was  evident  that  having  at  last  spoken  she  intended 
to  unburden  herself  of  long-accumulated  passionate  words. 

"  All  my  lif£  I've  had  to  listen  to  and  smile  sweetly 
at  ridiculous  hypocrisies.  I  have  had  to  teach  them  and 
live  them  too.  But  now  I'm  so  sick  of  them  I  can't  keep 
it  up  a  month  longer.  I  could  kill  some  one,  easily.  In 
a  world  where  salvation  for  a  woman  is  in  a  pair  of  slip 
pers  I  have  to  be  damned.  If  I  could  have  kept  my  hair 
smartly  done  up  and  worn  sheer  batiste  do  you  suppose 
for  a  minute  I'd  be  a  companion  to  Mrs.  Turnbull?  I 
could  be  going  out  to  the  cafes  in  a  landaulet." 

"  And  looking  a  lot  better  than  most  that  do,"  he  com 
mented  without  premeditation. 

She  glanced  at  him  again,  and  he  saw  that  her  eyes 
were  gray,  habitually  half  closed  and  inviting. 

"  I've  had  frightfully  bad  luck,"  she  went  on;  "once 
or  twice  when  it  seemed  that  I  was  to  have  a  chance,  when 
it  appeared  brighter  —  everything  went  to  pieces." 

"  Perhaps  you  want  too  much,"  he  suggested. 

"  Perhaps,"  she  agreed  wearily;  "  ease  and  pretty  clothes 
and  —  a  man."  She  added  the  latter  with  a  more  musical 
inflection  than  he  had  yet  heard. 

"  Of  course,"  he  proceeded  importantly,  "  there  are  not 
a  great  many  men.  At  least  I  haven't  found  them.  As 

[212] 


BREAD 

you  say,  most  people  are  incapable  of  any  power  or  deci 
sion.  I  always  maintain  it's  something  in  the  country. 

Now  in "  He  stopped,  re-began:  "  In  Europe  they 

are  different.  There  a  man  is  better  understood,  and 
women  as  well." 

"  I  have  never  been  out  of  America,"  Miss  Beggs  ad 
mitted. 

"  But  you  might  well  have  been,"  he  assured  her; 
"  you  are  more  Continental  than  any  one  else  I  can  think 
of." 

He  moved  toward  the  middle  of  the  bench  and  she  said 
quickly :  "  You  must  not  misunderstand.  I  am  not  cheap 
nor  silly.  It  might  have  been  better  for  me."  She  ad 
dressed  the  fading  light  on  the  sea.  "  Silly  women,  too, 
do  remarkably  well.  But  I  am  not  young  enough  to 
change  now."  She  rose,  gracefully  drawn  against  space; 
her  firm  chin  was  elevated  and  her  hands  clenched.  "  I 
won't  grow  old  this  way  and  shrivel  like  an  apple,"  she 
half  cried. 

It  would  be  a  pity,  he  told  himself,  watching  her  erect 
figure  diminish  over  the  boardwalk.  He  had  a  feeling  of 
having  come  in  contact  with  an  extraordinarily  potent 
force.  By  heaven,  she  positively  crackled!  He  smiled, 
thinking  of  the  misguided  people  who  had  employed  her, 
ignorant  of  all  that  underlay  that  severe  prudent  manner. 
At  the  same  time  he  was  flattered  that  she  had  confided  in 
him.  It  was  clear  she  recognized  that  he,  at  least,  was  a 
man.  He  was  really  sorry  for  her  —  what  an  invigorating 
influence  she  was! 

She  had  spoken  of  being  no  longer  young  —  something 
over  thirty-five  he  judged  —  and  that  brought  the  realiza- 

[213] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

tion  that  he  was  getting  on.  A  few  years  now,  ten  or 
twelve,  and  life  would  be  behind  him.  It  was  a  rare  and 
uncomfortable  thought.  Usually  he  saw  himself  as  at  the 
most  desirable  age  —  a  young  spirit  tempered  by  wisdom 
and  experience.  But  in  a  flash  he  read  that  his  prime 
must  depart;  every  hour  left  was  priceless. 

The  best  part  of  this  must  be  dedicated  to  a  helpless 
invalid;  a  strong  current  of  self-pity  set  through  him. 
But  it  was  speedily  lost  in  a  more  customary  arrogance. 
August  Turnbull  repeated  the  favorite  aphorisms  from 
Frederick  Rathe  about  the  higher  man.  If  he  believed 
them  at  all,  if  they  applied  to  life  in  general  they  were 
equally  true  in  connection  with  his  home;  in  short  —  his 
wife.  Emmy  Turnbull  couldn't  really  be  called  a  wife. 
There  should  be  a  provision  to  release  men  from  such 
bonds. 

It  might  be  that  the  will-to-power  would  release  itself. 
In  theory  that  was  well  enough,  but  practically  there  were 
countless  small  difficulties.  The  strands  of  life  were  so 
tied  in,  one  with  another.  Opinion  was  made  up  of  an 
infinite  number  of  stupid  prejudices.  In  short,  no  way 
presented  itself  of  getting  rid  of  Emmy. 

His  mind  returned  to  Meta  Beggs.  What  a  woman  she 
was!  What  a  triumph  to  master  her  contemptuous  stub 
born  being! 

IV 

At  least,  August  reflected  with  a  degree  of  comfort  at 
breakfast,  Emmy  didn't  come  down  in  the  morning;  she 
hadn't  enough  strength.  He  addressed  himself  to  the 
demolishment  of  a  ripe  Cassaba  melon.  It  melted  in  his 

[214] 


BREAD 

mouth  to  the  consistency  of  sugary  water.  His  coffee  cup 
had  a  large  flattened  bowl,  and  pouring  in  the  ropy  cream 
with  his  free  hand  he  lifted  the  silver  cover  of  a  dish  set 
before  him.  It  held  spitted  chicken  livers  and  bacon 
and  gave  out  an  irresistible  odor.  There  were,  too,  pota 
toes  chopped  fine  with  peppers  and  browned ;  and  hot  deli 
cately  sweetened  buns.  He  emptied  two  full  spits,  re 
newed  his  coffee  and  finished  the  potatoes. 

With  a  butter  ball  at  the  center  of  a  bun  he  casually 
glanced  at  the  day's  paper.  The  submarines,  he  saw,  were 
operating  farther  south.  A  small  passenger  steamer,  the 
Veronica,  had  been  torpedoed  outside  the  Delaware  Capes. 

A  step  sounded  in  the  hall,  and  Louise  entered  the 
dining  room,  clad  all  in  white  with  the  exception  of  a 
closely  fitting  yellow  hat.  After  a  moment  Victorine,  a 
girl  small  for  her  age,  with  a  petulant  satiated  expression, 
followed. 

"  It's  a  shame,"  Louise  observed,  "  that  with  Morice 
and  his  wife  in  the  cottage  you  have  to  breakfast  alone. 
I  suppose  all  those  theatrical  people  get  up  at  noon." 

"  Not  quite,"  Rosalie  told  her  from  the  doorway. 

Louise  made  no  reply  other  than  elevating  her  brows. 
Victorine  looked  at  the  other  with  an  exact  mirroring  of 
her  mother's  disdain. 

"  Good  morning,"  Morice  said  indistinctly,  hooking  the 
collar  of  his  uniform.  "  It's  a  bloody  nuisance,"  he  as 
serted.  "  Why  can't  they  copy  the  English  jacket?  " 

"  It  is  much  better  looking,"  Louise  added. 

"  Well,"  Rosalie  proclaimed,  "  I'm  glad  to  see  Morice 
in  any;  even  if  it  means  nothing  more  than  a  desk  in  the 
Quartermaster's  Department." 

[215] 


THE   HAPPY    END 

"  That  is  very  necessary,"  August  Turnbull  spoke  de 
cidedly. 

"  Perhaps,"  she  agreed. 

"  I  think  it  is  bad  taste  to  raise  such  insinuations." 
Louise  was  severe. 

"  An  army,"  August  put  in,  "  travels  on  its  stomach. 
As  Louise  suggests  —  we  must  ask  you  not  to  discuss  the 
question  in  your  present  tone."  Morice'si  wife  half- 
audibly  spoke  into  her  melon,  and  his  face  reddened. 
"  What  did  I  understand  you  to  say?  "  he  demanded. 

"  Oh,  '  Swat  the  fly!  '  "  Rosalie  answered  hardily. 

"Not  at  all!"  he  almost  shouted.  "What  you  said 
was  'Swat  the  Kaiser!  '" 

"Well,  swat  him!  " 

"  It  was  evident,  also,  that  you  did  not  refer  to  the 
Emperor  of  Germany  —  but  to  me." 

"  You  said  it,"  she  admitted  vulgarly.  "  If  any  house 
ever  had  a  Hohenzollern  this  has." 

"  Shut  up,  Rosalie !  "  her  husband  commanded,  per 
turbed;  "you'll  spoil  everything." 

"  It  might  be  better  if  she  continued,"  Louise  Foster 
corrected  him.  "  Perhaps  then  we'd  learn  something  of 
this  —  this  beauty." 

"  I  got  good  money  for  my  face  anyhow,"  Rosalie  as 
serted.  "  And  no  cash  premium  went  with  it  either.  As 
for  going  on,  I'll  go."  She  turned  to  August  Turnbull: 
"  I've  been  stalling  round  here  for  nearly  a  year  with 
Morice  scared  to  death  trying  to  get  a  piece  of  change  out 
of  you.  Now  I'm  through;  I've  worked  hard  for  a  sea 
son's  pay,  but  this  is  slavery.  What  you  want  is  an 

[216] 


BREAD 

amalgamated  lady  bootblack  and  nautch  dancer.  You're 
a  joke  to  a  free  white  woman.  I'm  sorry  for  your  wife. 
She  ought  to  slip  you  a  bichloride  tablet.  If  it  was  worth 
while  I'd  turn  you  over  to  the  authorities  for  breaking  the 
food  regulations." 

She  rose,  unceremoniously  shoving  back  her  chair. 
"  For  a  fact,  I'm  tired  of  watching  you  eat.  You  down 
as  much  as  a  company  of  good  boys  on  the  march.  Don't 
get  black  in  the  face;  I'd  be  afraid  to  if  I  were  you." 

August  Turnbull's  rage  beat  like  a  hammer  at  the  base 
of  his  head.  He,  too,  rose,  leaning  forward  with  his  nap 
kin  crumpled  in  a  pounding  fist. 

"  Get  out  of  my  house!  "  he  shouted. 

"That's  all  right  enough,"  she  replied;  "the  question 
is  —  is  Morice  coming  with  me  ?  Is  that  khaki  he  has  on 
or  a  Kate  Greenaway  suit?  " 

Morice  looked  from  one  to  the  other  in  obvious  dismay. 
He  had  a  pleasant  dull  face  and  a  minute  spiked  mustache 
on  an  irresolute  mouth. 

"  If  you  stay  with  me,"  she  warned  him  further,  "  I'll 
have  you  out  of  that  grocery  store  and  into  a  trench." 

"  Pleasant  for  you,  Morice,"  Louise  explained. 

"  Things  were  so  comfortable,  Rosalie,"  he  protested 
despairingly.  "  What  in  the  name  of  sense  made  you  stir 
this  all  up?  The  governor  won't  do  a  tap  for  us  now." 

His  wife  stood  by  herself,  facing  the  inimical  Turnbull 
front,  while  Morice  wavered  between. 

"  If  you'll  get  along,"  the  former  told  him,  "  I  can 
make  a  living  till  you  come  back.  We  can  do  without 
any  Triibner  money.  I'm  not  a  lot  at  German,  but  I 

[217] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

guess  you  can  understand  me,"  she  again  addressed  Au 
gust.  "  Not  that  I  blame  you  for  the  change,  such  as  it 
is." 

"  I'll  have  to  go  with  her,"  Morice  unhappily  de 
clared. 

August  Turnbull's  face  was  stiff  with  congestion.  The 
figures  before  him  wavered  in  a  sort  of  fog.  He  put  out 
a  hand,  supporting  himself  on  the  back  of  his  chair. 

"  Get  out  of  my  house,"  he  repeated  in  a  hoarse  whis 
per. 

Fortunately  Morice's  leave  had  come  to  an  end,  and 
Rosalie  and  he  withdrew  in  at  least  the  semblance  of  a 
normal  departure.  August's  rage  changed  to  an  indignant 
surprise,  and  he  established  himself  with  a  rigid  dignity 
on  the  veranda.  There,  happening  on  a  cigar  that  burned 
badly,  he  was  reduced  to  a  state  of  further  self-commisera 
tion.  That  is,  he  dwelt  on  the  general  deterioration  of 
the  world  about  him.  There  was  no  discipline;  there  was 
no  respect;  authority  was  laughed  at.  All  this  was  the 
result  of  laxness,  of  the  sentimentality  he  condemned;  a 
firmer  hand  was  needed  everywhere. 

He  turned  with  relief  to  the  contemplation  of  Meta 
Beggs;  she  was  enormously  satisfactory  to  consider.  Au 
gust  watched  her  now  with  the  greatest  interest;  he  even 
sat  in  his  wife's  room  while  her  companion  moved  si 
lently  and  gracefully  about.  Miss  Beggs  couldn't  have 
noticed  this,  for  scarcely  ever  did  her  gaze  meet  his;  she 
had  a  habit  of  standing  lost  in  thought,  her  slimness  a 
little  drooping,  as  if  she  were  weary  or  depressed.  She 
was  in  his  mind  continually  —  Miss  Beggs  and  Emmy,  his 
wife. 

[218] 


BREAD 

The  latter  had  a  surprising  power  to  disturb  him ;  lately 
he  had  even  dreamed  of  her  starving  to  death  in  the  pres 
ence  of  abundant  food.  He  began  to  be  superstitious 
about  it,  to  think  of  her  in  a  ridiculous  nervous  manner 
as  an  evil  design  on  his  peace  and  security.  She  seemed 
unnatural  with  her  shrunken  face  bowed  opposite  him  at 
the  table.  His  feeling  for  her  shifted  subconsciously  to 
hatred.  It  broke  out  publicly  in  sardonic  or  angry  periods 
under  which  she  would  shrink  away,  incredibly  timid,  from 
his  scorn.  This  quality  of  utter  helplessness  gave  the 
menace  he  divined  in  her  its  illusive  air  of  unreality. 
She  seemed  —  she  was  —  entirely  helpless;  a  prematurely 
aged  woman,  of  the  mildest  instincts,  dying  of  malnutri 
tion. 

Miss  Beggs  now  merged  into  all  his  daily  life,  his 
very  fiber.  He  regarded  her  in  an  attitude  of  admirable 
frankness.  "  Still  it  is  extraordinary  you  haven't  mar 
ried." 

The  tide  was  out,  it  was  late  afternoon,  and  they  were 
walking  over  the  hard  exposed  sand.  Whenever  she  came 
on  a  shell  she  crushed  it  writh  a  sharp  heel. 

"  There  were  some,"  she  replied  indifferently. 

He  nodded  gravely.  "  It  would  have  to  be  a  special 
kind  of  man,"  he  agreed.  "  An  ordinary  individual  would 
be  crushed  by  your  personality.  You'd  need  a  firm 
hand." 

Her  face  was  inscrutable.  "  I  have  always  had  the 
misfortune  to  be  too  late,"  she  told  him. 

"  I  wish  I  had  known  you  sooner!  "  he  exclaimed. 

Her  arms,  in  transparent  sleeves,  were  like  marble. 
His  words  crystallized  an  overwhelming  realization  of  how 

[219] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

exactly  she  was  suited  to  him.  The  desire  to  shut  her  will 
in  his  hand  increased  a  thousandfold. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I  would  have  married  you.  But 
there's  no  good  discussing  it."  She  breathed  deeply  with 
a  sinking  forward  of  her  rounded  shoulders.  All  her 
vigor  seemed  to  have  left  her.  "  I  have  been  worried  about 
Mrs.  Turnbull  lately,"  she  went  on.  "  Perhaps  it's  my 
imagination  —  does  she  look  weaker  to  you  ?  " 

"  I  haven't  noticed,"  he  answered  brusquely. 

Curiously  he  had  never  thought  of  Emmy  as  dying ;  she 
appeared  eternal,  without  the  possibility  of  offering  him 
the  relief  of  such  freedom  as  yet  remained.  Freedom  for 
—  for  Meta  Beggs. 

"  The  doctor  was  at  the  cottage  again  Thursday,"  she 
informed  him.  "  I  didn't  hear  what  he  said." 

"  Humbugs,"  August  Turnbull  pronounced. 

A  sudden  caution  invaded  him.  It  would  be  well  not 
to  implicate  himself  too  far  with  his  wife's  companion. 
She  was  a  far  shrewder  woman  than  was  common;  there 
was  such  a  thing  as  blackmail.  He  studied  her  privately. 
Damn  it,  what  a  pen  he  had  been  caught  in !  Her  manner, 
too,  changed  immediately,  as  though  she  had  read  his 
feeling. 

"  I  shall  have  to  go  back." 

She  spoke  coldly.  A  moment  before  she  had  been  close 
beside  him,  but  now  she  might  as  well  have  been  miles 
away. 


The  fuse  of  the  electric  light  in  the  dining  room  burned 
out,  and  dinner  proceeded  with  only  the  illumination  of 

[220] 


BREAD 

the  silk-hooded  candles.  In  the  subdued  glow  Meta  Beggs 
was  infinitely  attractive.  His  wife's  place  was  empty. 
Miss  Beggs  had  brought  apologetic  word  from  Emmy  that 
she  felt  too  weak  to  leave  her  room.  A  greater  degree 
of  comfort  possessed  August  Turnbull  than  he  had  expe 
rienced  for  months.  With  no  one  at  the  table  but  the 
slim  woman  on  the  left  and  himself  a  positive  geniality 
radiated  from  him.  He  pressed  her  to  have  more  cham 
pagne —  he  had  ordered  that  since  she  preferred  it  to 
Rhine  wine  —  urged  more  duckling,  and  ordered  the  butler 
to  leave  the  brandy  decanter  before  them. 

She  laughed  —  a  rare  occurrence  —  and  imitated,  for 
his  intense  amusement,  Mrs.  Frederick  Rathe's  extreme 
cutting  social  manner.  He  drank  more  than  he  intended, 
and  when  he  rose  his  legs  were  insecure.  He  made  his 
way  toward  Meta  Beggs.  She  stood  motionless,  her  thin 
lips  like  a  thread  of  blood  on  her  tense  face. 

"  What  a  wife  you'd  make!  "  he  muttered. 

There  was  a  discreet  cough  at  his  back,  and  swinging 
about  he  saw  a  maid  in  a  white  starched  cap  and  high 
cuffs. 

"  Excuse  me,  sir,"  she  said;  "Mrs.  Turnbull  wants  to 
know  would  you  please  come  up  to  her  room." 

He  swayed  slightly,  glowering  at  her  with  a  hot  face 
in  which  a  vein  throbbed  persistently  at  his  temple.  Miss 
Beggs  had  disappeared. 

"  Very  well,"  he  agreed  heavily. 

Mounting  the  stairs  he  fumbled  for  his  cigar  case,  and 
entered  the  chamber  beyond  his,  clipping  the  end  from  a 
superlative  perfecto. 

Emmy  was  in  bed,  propped  up  on  a  bank  of  embroid- 
[221] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

ered  pillows.  A  light  from  one  side  threw  the  shadow  of 
her  head  on  a  wall  in  an  animated  caricature  of  life. 

"  I  didn't  want  to  disturb  you,  August." 

Her  voice  was  weak  and  apologetic.  He  stood  irritably 
beside  her. 

"  It's  hot  in  here."  His  wife  at  once  detected  what 
ever  assaulted  his  complete  comfort.  She  fell  into  a  silence 
that  strained  his  patience  to  the  utmost. 

When  at  last  she  spoke  it  was  in  a  tone  of  voice  he 
had  never  heard  from  her  —  impersonal,  with  at  the  same 
time  a  note  of  fear  like  the  flutter  of  a  bird's  wing. 

"  The  doctor  has  been  here  two  or  three  times  lately. 
I  didn't  want  to  bother  you,  and  he  said ' 

She  broke  off,  and  her  hand  raised  from  her  side  in  a 
gesture  of  seeking.  He  held  it  uncomfortably,  wishing 
that  the  occasion  would  speedily  end. 

"  August,  I've  —  I've  got  to  leave  you." 

He  did  not  comprehend  her  meaning,  and  stood  stupidly 
looking  down  at  her  spent  face.  "  I'm  going  to  die,  Au 
gust,  almost  any  time  now.  I  wanted  to  tell  you  first 
when  we  were  quietly  together;  and  then  Louise  and 
Bernard  must  know." 

His  sensations  were  so  confused,  the  mere  shock  of  such 
an  announcement  had  so  confounded  him  that  he  was  un 
able  to  penetrate  the  meaning  of  the  sudden  expansion 
of  his  blood.  His  attention  strayed  from  the  actuality  of 
his  wife  to  the  immaterial  shadow  wavering  on  the  wall. 
There  Emmy's  profile,  grotesquely  enlarged  and  sharp 
ened,  grimaced  at  him.  August  TurnbulFs  feelings  dis 
entangled  and  grew  clearer,  there  was  a  conventional  mem 
ory  of  his  wife  as  a  young  woman,  the  infinitely  sharper 

[222] 


BREAD 

realization  that  soon  he  must  be  free,  a  vision  of  Meta 
Beggs  as  she  had  been  at  dinner  that  night,  and  intense 
relief  from  nameless  strain. 

He  moved  through  the  atmosphere  of  suspense  that  fol 
lowed  the  knowledge  of  Emmy's  condition  with  a  feeling 
of  being  entirely  apart  from  his  family.  Out  of  the 
chaos  of  his  emotions  the  sense  of  release  was  most  in 
sistent.  Naturally  he  couldn't  share  it  with  any  one  else, 
not  at  present.  He  avoided  thinking  directly  of  Meta 
Beggs,  partly  from  the  shreds  of  the  superstitious  dread 
that  had  once  colored  his  attitude  toward  his  wife  and 
partly  from  the  necessity  to  control  what  otherwise  would 
sweep  him  into  a  resistless  torrent.  However,  most  of  his 
impatience  had  vanished  —  a  little  while  now,  and  in  a 
discreet  manner  he  could  grasp  all  that  he  had  believed 
so  hopelessly  removed. 

Except  for  the  occasions  of  Louise's  informal  presence 
he  dined  alone  with  Miss  Beggs.  They  were  largely  si 
lent,  attacking  their  plates  with  complete  satisfaction.  On 
the  day  of  her  monthly  payment  he  drew  the  check  for 
a  thousand  dollars  in  place  of  the  stipulated  hundred,  and 
gave  it  to  her  without  comment.  She  nodded,  managing 
to  convey  entire  understanding  and  acceptance  of  what 
it  forecast.  Once,  at  the  table,  he  called  her  Meta. 

She  deliberated  a  reply  —  he  had  asked  her  opinion 
about  British  bottled  sauces  —  but  when  she  answered  she 
called  him  Mr.  Turnbull.  This,  too,  pleased  him.  She 
had  an  unerring  judgment  in  the  small  affairs  of  defer 
ence.  Dinner  had  been  better  than  usual,  and  he  realized 
he  had  eaten  too  much.  His  throat  felt  constricted,  he 
had  difficulty  in  swallowing  a  final  gulp  of  coffee; 

[223] 


THE   HAPPY   END 

the  heavy  odors-  of  the  dining  room  almost  sickened 
him. 

"We'll  get  out  on  the  beach,"  he  said  abruptly;  "a 
little  air." 

They  proceeded  past  the  unremitting  sprinklers  on  the 
strip  of  lawn  to  the  wide  gray  sweep  of  sand.  At  that 
hour  no  one  else  was  visible,  and  a  new  recklessness  in 
vaded  his  discomfort.  "  You  see,"  he  told  her,  "  that  bad 
luck  of  yours  isn't  going  to  hold." 

"  It  seems  incredible,"  she  murmured.  She  added  with 
out  an  appearance  of  the  least  ulterior  thought:  "Mrs. 
August  Turnbull." 

"  Exactly,"  he  asserted. 

A  triumphant  conviction  of  pleasure  to  come  surged 
through  him  like  a  subtle  exhilarating  cordial. 

"  I'll  take  no  nonsensical  airs  from  Louise  or  the 
Rathes,"  he  proclaimed. 

"  Don't  let  that  worry  you,"  she  answered  serenely. 

He  saw  that  it  need  not,  and  looked  forward  appre 
ciatively  to  a  scene  in  which  Meta  would  not  come  off 
second. 

Above  them  the  long  curve  of  the  boardwalk  was  empty, 
with,  behind  it,  the  suave  ornamental  roofs  of  the  cottages. 
A  wind  quartering  from  the  shore  had  smoothed  the 
ocean  into  the  semblance  of  a  limitless  and  placid  lake. 
Minute  waves  ruffled  along  the  beach  with  a  contin 
uous  whispering,  and  the  vault  of  the  west,  from  which 
the  sun  had  just  withdrawn,  was  filled  with  light  the 
color  of  sauterne  wine. 

It  was  inconceivable  to  August  Turnbull  that  soon 
Emmy  would  be  gone  out  of  his  life.  He  shook  his  thick 

[224] 


BREAD 

shoulders  as  if  by  a  gesture  to  unburden  himself  of  her 
unpleasant  responsibility.  He  smiled  slightly  at  the  mem 
ory  of  how  he  had  come  to  fear  her.  It  had  been  the  re 
sult  of  the  strain  he  was  under;  once  more  the  vision  of 
mountainous  bread  and  Emmy  returned.  The  devil  was 
in  the  woman! 

"  What  are  you  smiling  at?  "  Meta  asked. 

"  Perhaps  it  was  because  my  luck,  as  well,  has  changed," 
he  admitted. 

She  came  close  up  to  him,  quivering  with  emotion. 

"  I  want  everything!  "  she  cried  in  a  vibrant  hunger; 
"everything!  Do  you  understand?  Are  you  willing? 
I'm  starved  as  much  as  that  woman  up  in  her  bed.  Can 
you  give  me  all  the  gayety,  all  the  silks  and  emeralds 
there  are  in  the  world?  " 

He  patted  her  shoulder.  "  You'll  look  like  a  Christ 
mas  tree.  When  this  damned  war  is  over  we  will  go  to 
Europe,  to  Berlin  and  Munich.  They  have  the  finest 
streets  and  theaters  and  cafes  in  the  world.  There  things 
are  run  by  men  for  men.  The  food  is  the  best  of  all  — 
no  French  fripperies,  but  solid  rare  cuts.  Drinking  is  an 
art " 

"  What  is  that  out  in  the  water?  "  she  idly  demanded. 

He  gazed  impatiently  over  the  unscored  tide  and  saw 
a  dark  infinitesimal  blot. 

"  I  have  been  watching  it  for  a  long  while,"  she  con 
tinued.  "  It's  coming  closer,  I  think." 

He  again  took  up  his  planning. 

"  We'll  stay  two  or  three  years;  till  things  get  on  their 
feet  here.  Turn  the  bakery  into  a  company.  No  work, 
nothing  but  parties." 

[225] 


THE   HAPPY    END 

"  Do  look!  "  she  repeated.  "  It's  coming  in  —  a  little 
boat.  I  suppose  it  is  empty." 

The  blot  was  now  near  enough  for  him  to  distinguish 
its  outline.  As  Meta  said,  no  one  was  visible.  It  was 
drifting.  Against  his  wish  his  gaze  fastened  on  the  ap 
proaching  boat.  It  hesitated,  appeared  to  swing  away, 
and  then  resumed  the  progress  inshore. 

"  I  believe  it  will  float  into  that  cut  in  the  beach  be 
low,"  he  told  her. 

His  attention  was  divided  between  the  craft  and  the 
image  of  all  the  pleasures  he  would  introduce  to  Meta  — 
Turnbull.  It  was  a  lucky  circumstance  that  he  had  plenty 
of  money,  for  he  realized  that  she  would  not  marry  a  poor 
man.  This  was  not  only  natural  but  commendable.  Poor 
men  were  fools,  too  weak  for  success;  only  the  strong  ate 
white  bread  and  had  fine  women,  only  the  masterful  con 
quered  circumstance. 

"Come,"  she  said,  catching  his  hand;  "it's  almost 
here." 

She  half  pulled  him  over  the  glistening  wet  sand  to 
where  the  deeper  water  thrust  into  the  beach*  Her  inter 
est  was  now  fully  communicated  to  him. 

"  We  must  drag  it  safely  up,"  he  articulated,  out  of 
breath  from  her  eagerness.  The  bow  swept  into  the  on 
ward  current,  it  moved  more  swiftly,  and  then  sluggishly 
settled  against  the  bottom.  Painted  on  its  blistering  white 
side  was  a  name,  "  Veronica"  and  "  Ten  persons."  There 
was  a  slight  movement  at  the  rail,  and  a  sharp  unreason 
ing  horror  gripped  August  Turnbull. 

"  Something  in  it,"  he  muttered.  He  wanted  to  turn 
away,  to  run  from  the  beach;  but  a  stronger  curiosity 

[22*5 


BREAD 

dragged  him  forward.     Not  conscious  of  stepping  through 
shallow  water  he  advanced. 

A  hunger-ravished  dead  face  was  turned  to  him  from 
the  bottom,  a  huddle  of  bony  joints,  dried  hands.     There 
were  others  —  all  dead,  starved.     In  a  red  glimmer  he 
saw  the   incredible  travesty  of   a   child,   a  lead-colored 
woman,  shriveled  and  ageless  from  agony. 
He  fell  back  with  a  choking  cry,  "  Emmy!  " 
There  was  a  dull  uproar  in  his  head,  and  then  a  vio 
lent  shock  at  the  back  of  his  brain.     August  TurnbulPs 
body  slid  down  into  the  tranquil  ripples  that  ran  along 
the  boat's  side. 


[227] 


ROSEMARY  ROSELLE 


IT  would  be  better  for  my  purpose  if  you  could  hear 
the  little  clear  arpeggios  of  an  obsolete  music  box, 
the  notes  as  sweet  as  barley  sugar ;  for  then  the  mood 
of  Rosemary  Roselle  might  steal  imperceptibly  into  your 
heart.     It  is  made  of  daguerreotypes  blurring  on  their 
misted  silver ;  tenebrous  lithographs  —  solemn  facades  of 
brick  with  classic  white  lanterns  lifted  against  the  inky 
smoke  of  a  burning  city;  the  pages  of  a  lady's  book,  ele 
gant  engravings  of  hooped  and  gallooned  females;   and 
the  scent  of  crumbled  flowers. 

Such  intangible  sources  must  of  necessity  be  fragile  — 
a  perfume  linked  to  a  thin  chime,  elusive  faces  on  the 
shadowy  mirror  of  the  past,  memories  of  things  not  seen 
but  felt  in  poignant  unfathomable  emotions.  This  is  a 
magic  different  from  that  of  to-day;  here  perhaps  are  only 
some  wistful  ghosts  brought  back  among  contemptuous 
realities  —  a  man  in  a  faded  blue  uniform  with  a  face 
drawn  by  suffering  long  ended,  a  girl  whose  charm,  like 
the  flowers,  is  dust. 

It  is  all  as  remote  as  a  smile  remembered  from  youth. 
Such  apparent  trifles  often  hold  a  steadfast  loveliness 
more  enduring  than  the  greatest  tragedies  and  successes. 
They  are  irradiated  by  an  imperishable  romance:  this 
is  my  desire  —  to  hold  out  an  immaterial  glamour, 
a  vapor,  delicately  colored  by  old  days  in  which  you 
may  discover  the  romantic  and  amiable  shapes  of  secret 
dreams. 

[231] 


THE    HAPPY    END 


It  will  serve  us  best  to  see  Elim  Meikeljohn  first  as  he 
walked  across  Winthrop  Common.  It  was  very  early  in 
April  and  should  have  been  cool,  but  it  was  warm  —  al 
ready  there  were  some  vermilion  buds  on  the  maples  — 
and  Elim's  worn  shad-belly  coat  was  uncomfortably 
heavy.  The  coat  was  too  big  for  him  —  his  father  had 
worn  it  for  twenty  years  before  he  had  given  it  to  Elim 
for  college  —  and  it  hung  in  somber  greenish  folds  about 
his  tall  spare  body.  He  carried  an  equally  oppressive 
black  stiff  hat  in  a  bony  hand  and  exposed  a  gaunt  se 
rious  countenance. 

Other  young  men  passing,  vaulting  lightly  over  the 
wooden  rail  that  enclosed  the  common,  wore  flowing  whis 
kers,  crisply  black  or  brown  like  a  tobacco  leaf;  their 
luxuriant  waistcoats  were  draped  with  a  profusion  of 
chains  and  seals;  but  Elim's  face  was  austerely  shaved,  he 
wore  neither  brocade  nor  gold,  and  he  kept  seriously  to 
the  path. 

He  was,  even  more  than  usual,  absorbed  in  a  semi-gloom 
of  thought.  It  was  his  birthday,  he  was  twenty-six,  and 
he  had  been  married  more  than  nine  years.  Already, 
with  his  inherited  dark  temperament,  he  was  middle- 
aged  in  situation  and  feeling.  He  had  been  assistant  to 
the  professor  of  philosophy  and  letters  for  three  of  those 
married  years ;  yes  —  he  had  been  graduated  when  he  was 
twenty-three.  He  arrived  at  an  entrance  to  the  common 
that  faced  the  row  of  houses  where  he  had  his  room,  and 
saw  that  something  unusual  was  in  progress. 

The  front  of  his  boarding  house  was  literally  covered 
[232] 


ROSEMARY    ROSELLE 

with  young  men:  they  hung  over  the  small  portico  from 
steps  to  ridge,  they  bulged  from  every  window  and  sat 
astride  of  the  dormer  windows  in  the  roof.  Before  them  on 
the  street  a  camera  had  been  set  up  and  was  covered,  all 
save  the  snout,  by  a  black  rubber  cloth,  backward  from 
which  projected  the  body  and  limbs  of  the  photographer. 

The  latter,  Elim  realized,  was  one  of  a  traveling  band 
that  took  pictures  of  whatever,  on  their  way,  promised 
sufficient  pecuniary  return.  Here  the  operator  had  been  in 
luck  —  he  would  sell  at  least  thirty  photographs  at  per 
haps  fifty  cents  each.  Harry  Kaperton,  a  great  swell,  was 
in  his  window  with  his  setter,  Spot;  his  legs,  clad  in  bags 
with  tremendous  checks  and  glossy  boots,  hung  outward. 
On  the  veranda  were  Hinkle  and  Ben  Willing,  the  latter 
in  a  stovepipe  hat;  others  wore  stovepipes  set  at  a  rakish 
angle  on  one  ear.  They  were  all  irrepressibly  gay,  call 
ing  from  roof  to  ground,  each  begging  the  photographer  to 
focus  on  his  own  particular  charm. 

Perhaps  fifty  cents  —  Elim  Meikeljohn  would  have  liked 
a  place  in  the  picture;  he  would  like  to  possess  one,  to 
keep  it  as  a  memento  of  the  youthful  life  that  flowed  con 
stantly  about  him,  but  the  probable  cost  was  prohibitive. 
He  even  wished,  as  he  paused  before  making  his  way  up 
the  crowded  veranda  steps,  that  some  one  would  ask  him 
to  stay  and  have  his  picture  taken  with  the  rest.  He  de 
layed,  hoping  for  the  mere  formality  of  this  friendliness. 
But  it  was  not  forthcoming.  He  had  felt  that  it  wouldn't 
be;  he  had  divined  the  careless  silence  with  which  the  men 
moved  aside  for  him  to  mount.  iThere  was  even  a  mut 
tered  allusion  to  his  famous  Scotch  thrift,  contained  in  a 
sharper  word.  Elim  didn't  mind  —  actively.  He  had 

[233] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

been  accustomed  to  the  utmost  monetary  caution  since  the 
first  dawn  of  his  consciousness.  He  had  come  to  regard 
the  careful  weighing  of  pennies  as  an  integral  part  of  his 
being.  It  had  always  been  necessary  for  the  Meikeljohns, 
father  and  son,  on  their  rocky  pastures.  He  didn't  mind, 
but  at  the  same  time  he  bore  a  faint  resentment  at  the 
injustice  of  the  marked  and  perceptible  disdain  of  the 
majority  of  his  fellows. 

They  didn't  understand,  he  told  himself,  still  ascending 
to  his  room  in  the  third  floor  back.  Every  cent  that  he 
could  squeeze  from  his  small  salary  must  go  back  to  the 
support  of  the  invalid,  his  wife.  He  had  never,  of  course, 
explained  this  to  any  one  in  Cambridge.  They  wouldn't 
be  particularly  interested  and,  in  addition,  his  daily  com 
panions  seemed  far  too  young  for  such  serious  confidences. 
In  reality  Harry  Kaperton  was  three  years  older  than 
Elim;  and  Kaperton  had  been  pleasantly  at  college,  racing 
horses,  for  seven  years;  many  others  were  Elim's  age,  but 
the  maturity  of  the  latter's  responsibility  separated  them. 

In  his  room  he  took  off  his  formal  coat  and  nankeen 
waistcoat  and  hung  them  on  a  pegged  board.  The  room 
was  bare,  with  two  uncurtained  windows  that  afforded  a 
glimpse  of  the  shining  river ;  it  contained  a  small  air-tight 
stove,  now  cold  and  black,  and  a  wood  box,  a  narrow  bed, 
a  deal  table  with  a  row  of  worn  text-books  and  neatly 
folded  papers,  a  stand  for  water  pitcher  and  basin,  and 
two  split-hickory  Windsor  chairs.  Now  it  was  filled  with 
an  afternoon  glow,  like  powdered  gold,  and  the  querulously 
sweet  piping  of  an  early  robin. 

He  dipped  his  face  and  hands  in  cooling  water  and,  at 
[234] 


ROSEMARY    ROSELLE 

the  table,  with  squared  elbows,  addressed  himself  to  a 
set  task. 


II 

Elim  Meikeljohn  laid  before  him  a  small  docket  of 
foolscap  folded  lengthwise,  each  section  separately  in 
dorsed  in  pale  flowery  ink,  with  a  feminine  name,  a  class 
number  and  date.  They  were  the  weekly  themes  of  a  po 
lite  Young  Ladies'  Academy  in  Richmond,  sent  regularly 
north  for  the  impressive  opinion  of  a  member  of  Elim's 
college  faculty.  The  professor  of  philosophy  and  letters 
had  undertaken  the  task  primarily;  but,  with  the  multi 
plication  of  his  duties,  he  had  turned  the  essays  over  to 
Elim,  whose  careful  judgments  had  been  sufficiently  im 
posing  to  secure  for  him  a  slight  additional  income. 

He  sat  for  a  moment  regarding  the  papers  with  a  frown ; 
then,  with  a  sudden  movement,  he  went  over  the  names 
that  headed  each  paper.  Two  he  laid  aside.  They  bore 
above  their  dates  in  March,  eighteen  sixty-one,  the  name 
Rosemary  Roselle. 

He  picked  one  up  tentatively.  It  was  called  A  Letter. 
Elim  opened  it  and  regarded  its  tenuous  violet  script. 
Then,  with  an  expression  of  augmented  determination, 
he  folded  it  again  and  placed  it  with  its  fellow  at  the 
bottom  of  the  heap.  He  firmly  attacked  the  topmost  theme. 
He  read  it  slowly,  made  a  penciled  note  in  a  small 
precise  hand  on  its  margin,  folded  it  once  more  and  marked 
it  with  a  C  minus.  He  went  carefully  through  the  pile, 
jotting  occasional  comments,  judging  the  results  with  A, 

[235] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

B  or  C,  plus  or  minus.  Finally  only  the  two  he  had  placed 
at  the  bottom  remained. 

Elim  took  one  up  again,  gazing  at  it  severely.  He 
wondered  what  Rosemary  Roselle  had  written  about  — 
in  her  absurd  English  —  this  time.  As  he  looked  at  the 
theme's  exterior,  his  attention  shifted  from  the  paper  to 
himself,  his  conscience  towered  darkly  above  him,  demand 
ing  a  condemnatory  examination  of  his  feelings  and  im 
pulses. 

Had  he  not  begun  to  look  for,  to  desire,  those  essays 
from  a  doubtless  erroneous  and  light  young  woman? 
Had  he  not  even,  on  a  former  like  occasion,  awarded  her 
effort  with  a  B  minus,  when  it  was  questionable  if  she 
should  have  had  a  C  plus?  Had  his  conduct  not  been 
dishonest,  frivolous  and  wholly  reprehensible?  To  all 
these  inexorable  accusations  he  was  forced  to  confess  him 
self  guilty.  He  had  undoubtedly,  only  a  few  minutes 
before,  looked  almost  impatiently  for  something  from 
Rosemary  Roselle.  Beyond  cavil  she  should  have  had  an 
unadorned  C  last  month.  And  these  easily  proved  him  a 
broken  reed. 

He  must  at  once  take  himself  in  hand,  flames  were 
reaching  hungrily  for  him  from  the  pit  of  eternal  torment. 
In  a  little  more  he  would  be  damned  beyond  any  redemp- 
ion.  He  was  married  .  .  .  shame!  His  thoughts  turned 
to  Hester,  his  wife  for  nine  and  more  years. 

Her  father's  farm  lay  next  to  the  Meikeljohns' ;  the  two 
places  formed  practically  one  convenient  whole;  and  when 
Elim  had  been  no  more  than  a  child,  Meikeljohn  Senior 
and  Hester's  parents  had  solemnly  agreed  upon  a  mu 
tually  satisfactory  marriage.  Hester  had  always  been  a 

[236] 


ROSEMARY    ROSELLE 

thin  pale  slip  of  a  girl,  locally  famous  for  her  memory 
and  grasp  of  the  Scriptures;  but  it  was  only  at  her  four 
teenth  year  that  her  health  began  perceptibly  to  fail,  at 
the  same  time  that  a  succession  of  material  mischances 
overwhelmed  her  family.  Finally,  borne  down  to  actual 
privation,  her  father  decided  to  remove  to  another  section 
and  opportunity.  He  sold  his  place  for  a  fraction  more 
than  the  elder  Meikeljohn  could  pay  .  .  .  but  there  was 
Hester,  now  an  invalid;  and  there  was  the  agreement  that 
Meikeljohn  had  made  when  it  had  seemed  to  his  advan 
tage.  The  latter  was  a  rigidly  upright  man  —  he  ac 
cepted  for  his  son  the  responsibility  he  himself  had 
assumed,  and  Hester  was  left  behind.  Space  in  the 
Meikeljohn  household  was  valuable,  the  invalid  presented 
many  practical  difficulties,  and,  with  the  solemn  concur 
rence  of  the  elders  of  their  church,  Elim  —  something  short 
of  seventeen  but  a  grave  mature-seeming  boy  —  and  Hes 
ter  were  married. 

The  winter  of  his  marriage  Elim  departed  for  college  — 
his  father  was  a  just  man,  who  had  felt  obscurely  that  some 
reparation  was  due  Elim;  education  was  the  greatest  privi 
lege  of  which  Meikeljohn  could  conceive,  so,  at  sacrifices 
that  all  grimly  accepted,  Elim  was  sent  to  Cambridge. 
There,  when  he  had  been  graduated,  he  remained  — 
there  were  already  more  at  the  Meikeljohn  home  than 
their  labor  warranted  —  assistant  to  the  professor  of 
philosophy  and  letters. 

Elim  again  opened  the  paper  before  him  and  spread  it 
severely  on  the  table.  The  supposititious  letter,  "Two, 
Linden  Row,"  opened  in  proper  form  and  spelling,  ad 
dressed  to  "  Dearest  Elizabeth."  Its  progress,  however, 

[237] 


THE   HAPPY    END 

soon  wabbled,  its  periods  degenerated  into  a  confusion. 
It  endeavored  to  be  casual,  easy,  but  he  judged  it  merely 
trivial.  At  one  paragraph,  despite  his  resolution  of  criti 
cal  impersonality,  his  interest  deepened: 

"  On  Thursday  we  have  to  have  ready  a  Theme  to  send 
off  to  Harvard.  Of  course,  every  Thursday  morning  We, 
with  one  accord,  begin  to  make  excuses.  Well,  the  Dread 
Day  rolls  around  to-morrow,  and  consequently  I  am  deep 
in  the  Slough  of  Despond.  My  only  consolation  is  that 
our  Geniuses  can't  write  regularly,  but  then  the  mood  to 
write  never  possesses  me.  .  .  .  This  week,  in  writing  a 
comparison  between  Hamlet  and  Antonio,  I  did  succeed 
in  jotting  down  something,  but  unfortunately  I  found  that 
I  had  said  the  same  many  times  before,  only  about  differ 
ent  heroes.  My  tale  of  Woe " 

Elim  once  more  took  himself  firmly  in  hand;  he  folded 
the  paper  and  sharply  indorsed  it  with  a  C  minus.  After 
ward  he  felt  decidedly  uncomfortable.  He  wondered  if 
Rosemary  Roselle  would  be  made  unhappy  by  the  low 
marking?  Probably  she  wouldn't  care;  probably  all  that 
occupied  her  mind  were  dress  and  company.  Possibly  she 
danced  —  light,  godless. 

The  haze  within  deepened;  he  could  see  through  the 
window  the  tops  of  the  maples  —  they  held  a  green  sheen 
as  if  in  promise  of  the  leaves  to  follow.  The  robin  whis 
tled  faint  and  clear. 

Possibly  she  danced.  Carried  away  on  the  gracious 
flood  of  the  afternoon,  he  wondered  what  Rosemary  Roselle 
looked  like.  He  was  certain  that  she  was  pretty  —  her 
writing  had  the  unconscious  assurance  of  a  personable 
being.  Well,  he  would  never  know.  .  .  .  Rosemary  Ro- 

[238] 


ROSEMARY    ROSELLE 

selle  —  the  name  had  a  trick  of  hanging  in  the  memory; 
it  was  astonishingly  easy  to  repeat.  He  tried  it  aloud, 
speaking  with  a  sudden  emphasis  that  startled  him.  The 
name  came  back  to  him  from  the  bare  walls  of  his  room 
like  an  appeal.  Something  within  him  stirred  sharp  as 
a  knife.  He  rose  with  a  deep  breath,  confused,  as  if  some 
one  else,  unseen,  had  unexpectedly  spoken. 


Ill 

His  conscience,  stirring  again,  projected  the  image  of 
Hester,  with  her  pinched  glistening  countenance,  on 
his  conjecturing.  He  resolutely  addressed  himself  to  the 
judgment  of  Rosemary  Roselle's  second  paper,  his  lighter 
thoughts  drowned  in  the  ascending  dark  tide  of  his  tem 
perament.  It  was  called  Our  Waitress,  and  an  instant 
antagonism  for  the  entire  South  and  its  people  swept  over 
him. 

He  saw  that  the  essay's  subject  was  a  negro,  a  slave; 
and  all  his  impassioned  detestation  of  the  latter  term 
possessed  him.  The  essence  of  the  Meikeljohns  was  a 
necessity  for  freedom,  an  almost  bitter  pride  in  the  inde 
pendence  of  their  bodies.  Their  souls  they  held  to  be 
under  the  domination  of  a  relentless  Omnipotence,  evolved, 
it  might  have  been,  from  the  obdurate  and  resplendent 
granite  masses  of  the  highland  where  they  had  first  sur 
vived.  These  qualities  gave  to  Elim  Meikel John's  po 
litical  enmity  for  the  South  a  fervor  closely  resembling 
fanaticism.  Even  now  when,  following  South  Carolina, 
six  other  states  had  seceded,  he  did  not  believe  that  war 

[239] 


THE   HAPPY    END 

would  ensue;  he  believed  that  slavery  would  be  abolished 
at  a  lesser  price;  but  he  was  a  supporter  of  drastic  means 
for  its  suppression.  His  Christianity,  if  it  held  a  book  in 
one  hand,  grasped  a  sword  in  the  other,  a  sword  with  a 
bright  and  unsparing  blade  for  the  wrong-doer. 

He  consciously  centered  this  antagonism  on  Rosemary 
Roselle;  he  visualized  her  as  a  thoughtless  and  capricious 
female,  idling  in  vain  luxury,  cutting  with  a  hard  voice  at 
helpless  and  enslaved  human  beings.  He  condemned  his 
former  looseness  of  being,  his  playing  with  insidious  and 
destructive  forces.  A  phrase,  "  Babylonish  women,"  crept 
into  his  mind  from  some  old  yellow  page.  He  read: 

"  Indy  is  a  large  light  mulatto,  very  neat  and  very  slow. 
She  has  not  much  Sense,  but  a  great  deal  of  Sensibility. 
Helping  her  proves  Fatal.  The  more  that  is  done  for  her 
the  less  well  does  she  work.  .  .  .  Indy  is  very  unfortu 
nate:  going  out  with  a  present  of  money  she  lost  every 
penny.  Of  course  she  was  incapable  of  work  until  the 
sum  was  replaced." 

Elim  paused  with  an  impatient  snort  at  this  exhibition 
of  shiftlessness.  If  the  negroes  were  not  soon  freed  they 
would  be  ruined  beyond  redemption.  He  read  the  re 
mainder  of  the  paper  rigid  and  unapproving.  It  gave, 
he  considered,  such  an  excellent  picture  of  Southern  in 
iquities  that  he  marked  it  B  plus,  the  highest  rating  his 
responsibility  had  allowed  Rosemary  Roselle.  Now  he 
was  certain  that  her  very  name  held  a  dangerous  potenti 
ality —  it  came  too  easily  to  the  tongue;  it  had  a  wanton 
sound  like  a  silk  skirt. 

The  warm  glow  faded  from  the  room;  without,  the 
tenuous  and  bare  upper  branches  of  the  maples  wavered 

[240] 


ROSEMARY   ROSELLE 

in  the  oncoming  dusk.  The  river  had  disappeared.  Elim 
was  acutely  conscious  of  the  approaching  hour  of  supper; 
and  in  preparation  to  go  out  to  it  he  donned  again  the 
nankeen  waistcoat  and  solemn  garment  that  had  served 
his  father  so  long  and  so  well. 


IV 

The  following  day  was  almost  hot;  at  its  decline  com 
ing  across  Winthrop  Common  Elim  was  oppressed  and 
weary.  Nothing  unusual  was  happening  at  the  boarding 
house;  a  small  customary  group  was  seated  on  the  ve 
randa  steps,  and  he  joined  it.  The  conversation  hung 
exclusively  to  the  growing  tension  between  North  and 
South,  to  the  forming  of  a  Confederate  States  of  America 
in  February,  the  scattered  condition  of  the  Union  forces, 
the  probable  fate  of  the  forts  in  Charleston  harbor. 

The  men  spoke,  according  to  their  dispositions,  with  the 
fiery  emphasis  or  gravity  common  to  great  crises.  The  air 
was  charged  with  a  sense  of  imminence,  the  vague  discom 
fort  of  pending  catastrophe.  Elim  listened  without  com 
ment,  his  eyes  narrowed,  his  long  countenance  severe. 
Most  of  the  men  had  gone  into  Boston,  to  the  Parker 
House,  where  hourly  bulletins  were  being  posted.  Those 
on  the  steps  rose  to  follow,  all  except  Elim  Meikeljohn  — 
in  Boston  he  knew  money  would  be  spent. 

He  went  within,  stopping  to  glance  through  a  number  of 
lately  arrived  letters  on  a  table  and  found  one  for  himself, 
addressed  in  his  father's  painstaking  script.  Alone,  once 
more  without  his  coat,  he  opened  the  letter.  Its  beginning 

[241] 


THE   HAPPY    END 

was  commonplace  — "  My  dear  son,  Elim  " —  but  what  fol 
lowed  confused  him  by  the  totally  unexpected  shock  it 
contained:  Hester,  his  wife,  was  dead. 

At  first  he  was  unable  to  comprehend  the  details  of  what 
had  happened  to  him ;  the  fact  itself  was  of  such  disturb 
ing  significance.  He  had  never  considered  the  possibility 
of  Hester's  dying;  he  had  come  to  think  of  her  as  a  life 
long  responsibility.  She  had  seemed,  in  her  invalid's 
chair,  withdrawn  from  the  pressure  of  life  as  it  bore  upon 
others,  more  enduring  than  his  father's  haggard  concern 
over  the  increasing  difficulties  of  material  existence  and 
spiritual  salvation,  than  his  mother's  flushed  toiling. 

Elim  had  lived  with  no  horizon  wider  than  the  impover 
ished  daily  necessity;  he  had  accepted  this  with  mingled 
fatality  and  fortitude ;  any  rebellion  had  been  immediately 
suppressed  as  a  wicked  reflection  upon  Deity.  His  life 
had  been  ordered  in  this  course;  he  had  accepted  it  the 
more  readily  from  his  inherited  distrust  of  worldly  values 
and  aspirations;  it  had,  in  short,  been  he,  and  now  the 
foundations  of  his  entire  existence  had  been  overthrown. 

He  read  the  letter  more  carefully,  realizing  the  probable 
necessity  of  his  immediate  return  home  for  the  funeral. 
But  that  was  dispelled  —  his  father  wrote  that  it  had  been 
necessary  to  bury  Hester  at  once.  The  elder  Meikeljohn 
proceeded  relentlessly  to  an  exact  exposition  of  why  this 
had  been  done.  "  A  black  swelling  "  was  included  in  the 
details.  He  finished: 

"  And  if  it  would  be  inconvenient  for  you  to  leave  your 
work  at  this  time  it  is  not  necessary  for  you  to  come  here. 
In  some  ways  it  would  be  better  for  you  to  stay.  There  is 
little  enough  for  you  to  do  and  it  would  stop  your  money 

[242] 


ROSEMARY    ROSELLE 

at  college.  .  .  .  The  Lord  is  a  swift  and  terrible  Being 
Who  worketh  His  will  in  the  night. " 

Hester  was  dead.  Elim  involuntarily  walked  to  a 
window,  gazing  with  unseeing  eyes  at  the  familiar  pleas 
ant  prospect.  A  realization  flashed  unbidden  through  his 
mind,  a  realization  like  a  stab  of  lightning  —  he  was  free. 
He  overbore  it  immediately,  but  it  left  within  him  a  strange 
tingling  sensation.  He  directed  his  mind  upon  Hester 
and  the  profitable  contemplation  of  death;  but  rebellion 
sprang  up  within  him,  thoughts  beyond  control  whirled 
in  his  brain. 

Free!  A  hundred  impulses,  desires,  of  which  —  sup 
pressed  by  his  rigid  adherence  to  a  code  of  duty  —  he 
had  not  been  conscious,  leaped  into  vitality.  His  vision  of 
life  swung  from  its  focus  upon  outward  and  invisible 
things  to  a  new  surprising  regard  of  his  own  tangible  self. 
He  grew  aware  of  himself  as  an  entity,  of  the  world  as  a 
broad  and  various  field  of  exploit  and  discovery. 

There  was,  his  father  had  bluntly  indicated,  no  place  for 
him  at  home;  and  suddenly  he  realized  that  his  duties  at 
college  had  been  a  tedious  grind  for  inconsiderable  return. 
This  admission  brought  to  him  the  realization  that  he  de 
tested  the  whole  thing  —  the  hours  in  class;  the  droning 
negligent  recitations  of  the  men;  the  professor  of  philoso 
phy  and  letters'  pedantic  display;  the  cramped  academic 
spirit  of  the  institution.  The  vague  resentment  he  had 
felt  at  the  half-concealed  disdain  of  his  fellows  gave  place 
to  a  fiery  contempt  for  their  majority;  the  covert  humility 
he  had  been  forced  to  assume  —  by  the  thought  of  Hester 
and  the  few  miserable  dollars  of  an  inferior  position  — 
turned  to  a  bitter  freedom  of  opinion. 

[243] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

The  hour  for  supper  approached  and  passed,  but 
Elim  did  not  leave  his  room.  He  walked  from  wall  to 
wall,  by  turns  arrogant  and  lost  in  his  new  situation. 
Of  one  thing  he  was  certain  —  he  would  give  up  his  occu 
pation  here.  It  might  do  for  some  sniveling  sycophant 
of  learning  and  money,  but  he  was  going  forth  to  — 
what? 

He  heard  footfalls  in  the  bare  hall  below,  and  a  sud 
den  easy  desire  for  companionship  seized  him;  he  drew 
on  the  sturdy  Meikeljohn  coat  and  descended  the  stairs 
to  the  lower  floor.  Harry  Kaperton 's  door  was  open 
and  Elim  saw  the  other  moving  within.  He  advanced, 
leaning  in  the  doorway. 

"Back  early,"  Elim  remarked.  "What's  new  at 
Parker's?  " 

Kaperton  was  unsuccessful  in  hiding  his  surprise  at 
the  other's  unexpected  appearance  and  direct  question. 
"  Why  —  why,  nothing  when  I  left;  "  then  more  cordially: 
*  Come  in,  find  a  chair.  Bottle  on  the  table  —  oh,  I  didn't 
think."  He  offered  an  implied  apology  to  Elim's  scru 
ples. 

But  Elim  advanced  to  the  table,  where,  selecting  a  de 
canter  at  random,  he  poured  out  a  considerable  drink  of 
pale  spirits.  Harry  Kaperton  looked  at  him  in  foolish 
surprise. 

"  Had  no  idea  you  indulged !  "  he  ejaculated.  "  Al 
ways  took  you  to  be  a  severe  Puritan  duck." 

"  Scotch,"  Elim  corrected  him,  "  Presbyterian." 

He  tilted  the  glass  and  the  spirits  sank  smoothly  from 
sight.  His  throat  burned  as  if  he  had  swallowed  a  mouth 
ful  of  flame,  but  there  was  a  quality  in  the  strong  rum 

[244] 


ROSEMARY    ROSELLE 

that  accorded  with  his  present  mood:  it  was  fiery  like 
his  released  sense  of  life.  Kaperton  poured  himself  a 
drink,  elevated  it  with  a  friendly  word  and  joined  Elim. 

"  I'm  going  home,"  the  former  proceeded.  "  You  see, 
I  live  in  Maryland,  and  the  situation  there  is  getting  pretty 
warm.  We  want  to  get  our  women  out  of  Baltimore,  and 
our  affairs  conveniently  shaped,  before  any  possible  trou 
ble.  I  had  a  message  this  evening  to  come  at  once." 

The  two  men  presented  the  greatest  possible  contrast  — 
Harry  Kaperton  had  elegantly  flowing  whiskers,  a  round 
young  face  that  expressed  facile  excitement  at  a  possible 
disturbance,  and  sporting  garb  of  tremendous  emphasis. 
Elim's  face,  expressing  little  of  the  tumult  within,  harsh 
and  dark  and  dogged,  was  entirely  appropriate  to  his 
somber  greenish-black  dress.  Kaperton  gestured  toward 
the  bottle,  and  they  took  a  second  drink,  then  a  third. 

Kaperton's  face  flushed,  he  grew  increasingly  voluble, 
but  Elim  Meikeljohn  was  silent;  the  liquor  made  no  ap 
parent  impression  upon  him.  He  sat  across  the  table  from 
the  other  with  his  legs  extended  straight  before  him. 
They  emptied  the  decanter  of  spirits  and  turned  to  sherry, 
anything  that  was  left.  Kaperton  apologized  profoundly 
for  the  depleted  state  of  his  cellar  —  knowing  that  he  was 
leaving,  he  had  invited  a  party  of  men  to  his  room  the 
night  before.  He  was  tremendously  sorry  that  Elim  had 
been  overlooked  —  the  truth  being  that  no  one  had  known 
what  a  good  companion  Elim  was. 

It  seemed  to  Elim  Meikeljohn,  drinking  sherry,  that  the 
night  before  he  had  not  existed  at  all.  He  did  not  analyze 
his  new  being,  his  surprising  potations;  he  was  proceeding 
without  a  cautious  ordering  of  his  steps.  It  was  neither 

[245] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

a  celebration  nor  a  protest,  but  instinctive,  like  the  in 
discriminate  gulping  of  a  man  who  has  been  swimming 
under  the  water. 

"  Why,"  Kaperton  gasped,  "  you've  got  a  head  like  a 
cannon  ball." 

He  rose  and  wandered  unsteadily  about,  but  Elim  sat 
motionless,  silent,  drinking.  He  was  conscious  now  of  a 
drumming  in  his  ears  like  distant  martial  music,  a  con 
fused  echo  like  the  beat  of  countless  feet.  He  tilted  his 
glass  and  was  surprised  to  find  it  empty. 

"  It's  all  gone,"  Kaperton  said  dully. 

He  was  as  limp  as  an  empty  doll,  Elim  thought  con 
temptuously.  He,  Elim,  felt  like  hickory,  like  iron;  his 
mind  was  clear,  vindicative.  He  rose,  sweeping  back  the 
hair  from  his  high  austere  brow.  Kaperton  had  slid  for 
ward  in  his  chair  with  hanging  open  hands  and  mouth. 

The  drumming  in  Elim's  ears  grew  louder,  a  hum  of 
voices  was  added  to  it,  and  it  grew  nearer,  actual.  A 
crowd  of  men  was  entering  the  boarding  house,  carrying 
about  them  a  pressure  of  excited  exclamations  and  a  more 
subtle  disturbance.  Elim  Meikeljohn  left  Kaperton  and 
went  out  into  the  hall.  An  ascending  man  met  him. 

"  War !  "  he  cried.  "  The  damned  rebels  have  assaulted 
and  taken  Sumter !  Lincoln  has  called  for  fifty  thousand 
volunteers!  "  He  hurried  past  and  left  Elim  grasping 
the  handrail  of  the  stair. 

War!  The  word  carried  an  overwhelming  significance 
to  his  mind  dominated  by  the  intangible  drumming,  to  his 
newly  released  freedom.  War  upon  oppression,  upon  the 
criminal  slaveholders  of  the  South!  He  descended  the 
stairs,  pausing  above  the  small  agitated  throng  in  the  hall. 

[246] 


ROSEMARY    ROSELLE 

A  passionate  elation  swept  over  him.     He  held  his  long 
arms  upward  and  out. 

"  How  many  of  the  fifty  thousand  are  here?  "  he  asked. 
His  ringing  voice  was  answered  in  an  assent  that  rolled 
in  a  solid  volume  of  sound  up  the  stairs.  Elim  Meikel- 
john's  soul  leaped  in  the  supreme  kinship  that  linked 
him,  man  to  man,  with  all. 


It  was  again  April,  extremely  early  in  the  morning  and 
month,  and  thickly  cold,  when  Brevet-Major  Elim  Meikel- 
john,  burning  with  the  fever  of  a  re-opened  old  saber 
wound,  strayed  away  from  his  command  in  the  direction 
of  Richmond.  His  thoughts  revolved  with  the  rapidity  of 
a  pinwheel,  throwing  off  crackling  ideas,  illuminated  with 
blinding  spurts  and  exploding  colors,  in  every  direction. 
A  vague  persistent  pressure  sent  him  toward  the  city. 
It  was  being  evacuated;  the  Union  forces,  he  knew,  were 
to  enter  at  dawn;  but  he  had  stumbled  ahead,  careless  of 
consequences,  oblivious  of  possible  reprisal. 

He  was,  he  recognized  by  the  greater  blackness  ahead, 
near  the  outskirts  of  the  city  —  for  Richmond  was  burn 
ing.  The  towering  black  mass  of  smoke  was  growing 
more  perceptible  in  the  slowly  lightening  dawn.  Elim 
Meikeljohn  could  now  hear  the  low  sullen  uprush  of 
flames,  the  faint  crackling  of  timbers,  and  a  hot  aromatic 
odor  met  him  in  faint  waves. 

His  scabbard  beat  awkwardly  about  his  heels,  and  he 
impatiently  unhooked  it  and  threw  it  into  the  gloom  of  the 
roadside.  The  service  revolver  was  still  in  its  holster ;  but 

[247] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

he  had  forgotten  its  presence  and  use.  In  the  multicolored 
confusion  of  his  mind  but  one  conscious  impression  re 
mained;  and,  in  its  reiteration,  he  said  aloud,  over  and 
over,  in  dull  tones,  "  Two,  Linden  Row." 

The  words  held  no  concrete  meaning,  they  constructed 
no  vision,  embodied  no  tangible  desire;  they  were  merely 
the  mechanical  expression  of  an  obscure  and  dominating 
impulse.  He  was  hardly  more  sensate  in  his  progress  than 
a  nail  drawn  irresistibly  by  a  magnet. 

The  gray  mist  dissolved,  and  his  long  haggard  face 
grew  visible;  it  had  not  aged  in  the  past  four  years  of 
struggle  —  almost  from  boyhood  it  had  been  marked  with 
somber  longitudinal  lines  —  but  it  had  grown  keener,  more 
intense,  with  the  expression  of  a  man  whose  body  had 
starved  through  a  great  spiritual  conflict.  His  uniform, 
creased  and  stained,  and  now  silvery  with  dew,  flapped 
about  a  gaunt  ironlike  frame;  and  from  under  the  leather 
peak  of  his  kepi,  even  in  his  fever,  his  eyes  burned  steady 
and  compelling. 

Scattered  houses,  seemingly  as  unsubstantial  as  shadows, 
gathered  about  him;  they  grew  more  frequent,  joined 
shoulder  to  shoulder,  and  he  was  in  a  city  street.  On  the 
left  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  river,  solid  and  smooth 
and  unshining;  a  knot  of  men  passed  shouting  hoarsely, 
and  a  wave  of  heat  swept  over  him  like  a  choking  cloth. 
Like  the  morning,  his  mind  partially  cleared,  people  and 
scenes  grew  coherent.  The  former  were  a  disheveled  and 
rioting  rabble;  the  conflagration  spread  in  lurid  waves. 

The  great  stores  of  the  tobacco  warehouses  had  been  set 
on  fire,  and  the  spanning  flames  threatened  the  entire  city. 
The  rich  odor  of  the  burning  tobacco  leaves  rolled  over  the 

[248] 


ROSEMARY    ROSELLE 

streets  in  drifting  showers  of  ruby  sparks.  The  groups  on 
the  streets  resolved  into  individuals.  Elim  saw  a  hulking 
woman,  with  her  waist  torn  from  grimy  shoulders,  cursing 
the  retreating  Confederate  troops  with  uplifted  quivering 
fists;  he  saw  soldiers  in  gray  joined  to  shifty  town  charac 
ters  furtively  bearing  away  swollen  sacks;  carriages  with 
plunging  frenzied  horses,  a  man  with  white-faced  and  de 
spairingly  calm  women.  He  stopped  hurrying  in  the  op 
posite  direction  and  demanded: 

"Two,  Linden  Row?" 

The  other  waved  a  vague  arm  toward  the  right  and  broke 
away. 

The  street  mounted  sharply  and  Elim  passed  an  open 
space  teeming  with  hurrying  forms,  shrill  with  cries  lost  in 
the  drumming  roar  of  the  flames.  Every  third  man  was 
drunk.  He  passed  fights,  bestial  grimaces,  heard  the  fret 
ful  crack  of  revolvers.  The  great  storehouses  were  now 
below  him,  and  he  could  see  the  shuddering  inky  masses  of 
smoke  blotting  out  quarter  after  quarter.  He  was  on  a 
more  important  thoroughfare  now,  and  inquired  again: 

"Two,  Linden  Row?" 

This  man  ejaculated: 

"  The  Yankees  are  here!  "  The  fact  seemed  to  stupefy 
him,  and  he  stood  with  hanging  hands  and  mouth. 

Elim  Meikeljohn  repeated  his  query  and  was  answered 
by  a  negro  who  had  joined  them. 

"  On  ahead,  capt'n,"  he  volunteered;  "  fourth  turn  past 
the  capitol  and  first  crossing." 

The  other  regained  his  speech  and  began  to  curse  the 
negro  and  Elim,  but  the  latter  moved  swiftly  on. 

Above  him,  through  the  shifting  tenebrous  banks,  he 
[249] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

saw  a  classic  white  building  on  a  patch  of  incredible  green 
ery,  infinitely  remote;  and  then  from  the  center  of  the  city 
came  a  deafening  explosion,  a  great  sullen  sheet  of  flame, 
followed  by  flashes  like  lightning  in  the  settling  black 
ness. 

"  The  powder  magazines,"  Elim  heard  repeated  from 
person  to  person.  An  irregular  file  of  Confederate  soldiers 
galloped  past  him,  and  the  echo  of  their  hoofs  had  hardly 
died  before  a  troop  of  mounted  Union  cavalry,  with  slant 
ing  carbines,  rode  at  their  heels./  They  belonged,  Elim 
recognized,  to  Kautz'  command. 

He  had  now  reached  the  fourth  turn  beyond  the  with 
drawn  vision  of  the  capitol,  and  he  advanced  through  a 
black  snowing  of  soot.  Flames,  fanlike  and  pallid,  now- 
flickered  about  his  feet,  streamed  in  the  gutters  and  lapped 
the  curbs.  He  saw  heaps  of  broken  bottles  against  the 
bricks,  and  the  smell  of  fine  spilled  wines  and  liquors 
hung  in  his  nostrils.  His  reason  again  wavered  —  the  tre 
mendous  spectacle  of  burning  assumed  an  apocalyptic 
appearance,  as  if  the  city  had  burst  spontaneously  into 
flame  from  the  passionate  and  evil  spirits  engendered  and 
liberated  by  war. 

He  stopped  at  the  first  crossing  and  saw  before  him  a 
row  of  tall  brick  houses,  built  solidly  and  set  behind  small 
yards  and  a  low  iron  fencing.  They  had  shallow  por 
ticoes  with  iron  grilling,  and  at  this  end  a  towering  mag 
nolia  tree  swept  its  new  glossy  greenery  against  the  third- 
story  windows. 

"Linden  Row,"  he  muttered.  "Well  — Number 
Two?  " 

He  swung  back  a  creaking  gate  and  went  up  a  flight  of 
[250] 


ROSEMARY    ROSELLE 

bricked  steps  to  the  door.  He  had  guessed  right;  above  a 
brass  knocker  filmed  with  the  floating  muck  of  the  air  he 
saw  the  numeral,  Two,  painted  beneath  the  fanlight. 
The  windows  on  the  left  were  blank,  curtained.  The 
house  rose  silent  and  without  a  mark  of  life  above  the 
obscene  clamor  of  the  city.  He  knocked  sharply  and 
waited;  then  he  knocked  again.  Nothing  broke  the  still 
ness  of  the  fagade,  the  interior.  He  tried  the  door,  but 
it  was  solidly  barred.  Then  a  second  fact,  a  memory, 
joined  the  bare  location  in  his  brain.  It  was  a  name  — 
Rose  —  Rosemary  Roselle.  He  beat  with  an  emaciated 
fist  on  the  paneling  and  called,  "  Roselle!  Roselle!  " 

There  was  a  faint  answering  stir  within;  he  heard  the 
rattle  of  a  chain ;  the  door  swung  back  upon  an  apparently 
empty  and  cavernous  cool  hall. 


VI 

A  colored  woman,  in  a  crisp  white  turban,  with  a 
strained  face  more  gray  than  brown,  suddenly  advanced 
holding  before  her  in  both  hands  a  heavy  revolver  of  an 
outworn  pattern.  Elim  Meikeljohn  could  see  by  her 
drawn  features  that  she  was  about  to  pull  the  trigger,  and 
he  said  fretfully: 

"  Don't!  The  thing  will  explode.  One  of  us  will  get 
hurt."  She  closed  her  eyes,  Elim  threw  up  his  arm,  and 
an  amazingly  loud  report  crashed  through  the  entry.  He 
stood  swaying  weakly,  with  hanging  palms,  while  the 
woman  dropped  the  revolver  with  a  gasp.  Elim  Meikel 
john  began  to  cry  with  short  dry  sobs.  ...  It  was  in 
credible  that  any  one  should  discharge  a  big  revolver 

[251] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

directly  at  his  head.  He  sank  limply  against  a  chest  at 
the  wall. 

"  Oh,  Indy !  "  a  shaken  voice  exclaimed.  "  Do  you 
think  he's  dying  ?  "  The  colored  woman  went  reluctantly 
forward  and  peered  at  Elim.  She  touched  him  on  a 
shoulder. 

"  'Deed,  Miss  Rosemary,"  she  replied,  relieved  and 
angry,  "  that  shot  didn't  touch  a  hair.  He's  just  crying 
like  a  big  old  nothing."  She  grasped  him  more  firmly, 
gave  him  a  shake.  "  Dressed  like  a  soldier,"  she  pro 
ceeded  scornfully,  "  and  scaring  us  out  of  our  wits.  What 
did  you  want  to  come  here  for  anyhow  calling  out  names  ?  " 

Elim's  head  rolled  forward  and  back.  The  hall  seemed 
full  of  flaming  arrows,  and  he  collapsed  slowly  on  the  pol 
ished  floor.  He  was  moved;  he  was  half-conscious  of  his 
heels  dragging  upstairs,  of  frequent  pauses,  voices  expos 
tulating  and  directing  thinly.  Finally  he  sank  into  a 
sublimated  peace  in,  apparently,  a  floating  white  cloud. 

He  awoke  refreshed,  mentally  clear,  but  absurdly  weak 
—  he  was  lying  in  the  middle  of  a  four-posted  bed,  a  bed 
with  posts  so  massive  and  tall  that  they  resembled 
smooth  towering  trees.  Beyond  them  he  could  see  a  mar 
ble  mantel ;  a  grate  filled  with  softly  smoldering  coals,  and 
a  gleaming  brass  hod;  a  highboy  with  a  dark  lustrous 
surface;  oval  gold  frames;  and  muslin  curtains  in  an  open 
window,  stirring  in  an  air  that  moved  the  fluted  valance 
at  the  top  of  the  bed.  It  was  late  afternoon,  the  light 
was  fading,  the  interior  wavering  in  a  clear  shadow  filled 
with  the  faint  fat  odor  of  the  soft  coal. 

The  immaculate  bed  linen  bore  an  elusive  cool  scent, 
into  which  he  relapsed  with  profound  delight.  The  per- 

[252] 


ROSEMARY    ROSELLE 

sonality  of  the  room,  somber  and  still,  flowed  about  him 
with  a  magical  release  from  the  inferno  of  the  past  years, 
the  last  hours.  He  heard  a  movement  at  a  door,  and  the 
colored  woman  in  the  white  turban  moved  to  the  side  of 
the  bed. 

"  I  told  her,"  she  said  in  an  aggrieved  voice,  "  there 
wasn't  nothing  at  all  wrong  with  you.  I  reckon  now  you're 
all  ready  to  fight  again  or  eat.  Why  did  you  stir  things  all 
up  in  Richmond  and  kill  good  folks?  " 

"  To  set  you  free!  "  Elim  Meikeljohn  replied. 

She  gazed  at  him  thoughtfully. 

"  Capt'n,"  she  asked  finally,  "  are  you  free?  " 

"  Why,  certainly "  he  began,  and  then  stopped 

abruptly,  lost  in  the  memory  of  the  dour  past.  He  re 
called  his  father,  with  a  passion  for  learning,  impris 
oned  in  the  narrow  poverty  of  his  circumstances  and  sur 
roundings;  he  remembered  Hester,  with  her  wishful  gaze 
in  the  confines  of  her  invalid  chair;  his  own  laborious 
lonely  days.  Freedom,  a  high  and  difficult  term,  he  saw 
concerned  regions  of  the  spirit  not  liberated  —  solved  — 
by  a  simple  declaration  on  the  body.  The  war  had  been 
but  the  initial,  most  facile  step.  The  woman  had  silenced 
his  sounding  assertion,  humiliated  him,  by  a  word.  He 
gazed  at  her  with  a  new,  less  confident  interest.  The 
mental  effort  brought  a  momentary  recurrence  of  fever; 
he  flushed  and  muttered:  "Freedom  .  .  .  spirit." 

"  You're  not  as  wholesome  as  you  appeared,"  the  woman 
judged.  "  You  can't  have  nothing  beside  a  glass  of  milk." 
She  crossed  the  room  and,  stirring  the  fire,  put  on  fresh 
coal  that  ignited  with  an  oily  crackle.  Again  at  the  door 
she  paused.  "  Don't  you  try  to  move  about,"  she  di- 

[253] 


THE   HAPPY    END 

reeled;  "you  stay  right  in  this  room.  Mr.  Roselle,  he's 

downstairs,  and  Mr.  McCall,  and "  her  voice  took  on 

a  faint  insistent  note  of  warning.  He  paid  little  heed  to 
her;  he  was  lost  in  a  wave  of  weariness. 

The  following  morning,  stronger,  he  rose  and  tenta 
tively  trying  the  door  found  it  locked.  The  colored 
woman  appeared  soon  after  with  a  tray  which,  when  he 
had  performed  a  meager  toilet,  he  attacked  with  a  pleas 
ant  zest. 

"  The  city's  just  burning  right  up,"  she  informed  him, 
standing  in  the  middle  of  the  floor;  "  the  boats  on  the 
river  caught  fire  and  their  cannons  banged  into  Canal 
Street."  She  had  a  pale  even  color,  a  straight  delicate 
nose  and  sensitive  lips. 

"  Are  the  Union  troops  in  charge?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  sir.  They  got  some  of  the  fire  out,  I  heard  tell. 
But  that's  not  the  worst  now  —  a  body  can't  set  her  foot 
in  the  street,  it's  so  full  of  drunken  roaring  trash,  black 
and  white.  It's  good  Mr.  Roselle  and  Mr.  McCall  and 
Mr.  John  are  here,"  she  declared  again;  "  they  could  just 
finish  off  anybody  that  offered  to  turn  a  bad  hand." 

This,  Elim  felt,  was  incongruous  with  his  reception 
yesterday. 

Still  he  made  no  inquiry.  The  breakfast  finished,  he 
relapsed  once  more  on  his  pillows  and  heard  the  key 
stealthily  turn  in  the  door  from  the  outside. 

He  told  himself,  without  conviction,  that  he  must  rise 
and  join  his  command.  The  war,  he  knew,  was  over;  the 
courage  that  had  sustained  him  during  the  struggle  died. 
The  simple  question  of  the  colored  woman  had  largely 
slain  it.  His  own  personality,  the  vision  of  his  forth- 

[2S4] 


ROSEMARY    ROSELLE 

coming  life  and  necessity,  rose  to  the  surface  of  his  con 
sciousness.  Elim  realized  what  had  drawn  him  to  his 
present  situation  —  it  had,  of  course,  been  the  memory  of 
Rosemary  Roselle.  The  days  when  he  —  an  assistant  to 
a  professor  of  philosophy  and  letters  —  had  read  and 
marked  her  essays  seemed  to  lie  in  another  existence,  in 
finitely  remote.  How  would  he  excuse  his  presence,  the 
calling  of  her  name  before  the  house?  This  was  an  inop 
portune  —  a  fatal  —  moment  for  a  man  in  the  blue  of  the 
North  to  make  his  bow  to  a  Richmond  girl,  in  the  midst 
of  her  wasted  and  burning  place  of  home.  He  decided 
reluctantly  that  it  would  be  best  to  say  nothing  of  his  con 
nection  with  her  academic  labors,  but  to  depart  as  soon  as 
possible  and  without  explanation  of  his  first  summons. 
.  .  .  Rosemary  Roselle  —  the  name  had  clung  persistently 
to  his  memory.  It  was  probable  that  he  would  see  her  — 
once.  That  alone  was  extraordinary.  He  marveled  at  the 
grim  humor  of  circumstance  that  had  granted  him  such  a 
wildly  improbable  wish,  and  at  the  same  time  made  it 
humanly  impossible  for  him  to  benefit  from  it. 

VII 

The  leisurely  progress  of  his  thoughts  was  interrupted 
by  hasty  feet  without;  the  bolt  was  shot  back  and  his  door 
flung  open.  It  was  the  colored  woman  —  the  Indy  of 
the  essay  —  quivering  with  anger  and  fear. 

"  Capt'n,"  she  exclaimed,  gasping  with  her  rapid  ac 
cent,  "  you  come  right  down  to  the  dining  room,  and  bring 

that  big  pistol  of  yours.  There's  two,  two "  Words 

failed  her.  "  Anyhow  you  shoot  them !  It's  some  of  that 

[255] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

liberty  you  brought  along,  I  reckon.  You  come  down  to 
Miss  Rosemary!  " 

She  stood  tense  and  ashen,  and  Elim  rose  on  one  elbow. 

"  Some  of  our  liberty?  "  he  queried.  "  Did  Miss  Ro- 
selle  send  for  me?  " 

"  No,  sir,  she  didn't.  Miss  Rosemary  she  wouldn't 
send  for  you,  not  if  you  were  the  last  man  alive.  I'm 
telling  you  to  come  down  to  the  dining  room.  .  .  .  We've 
tended  you  and " 

"  Well,"  he  demanded  impatiently,  "  what  do  you 
want;  whom  shall  I  shoot?  " 

"  You'll  see,  quick  enough.  And  I  can't  stand  here 
talking  either;  I've  got  to  go  back.  You  get  yourself 
right  along  down !  " 

With  painful  slowness  Elim  made  his  preparations  to 
descend;  his  fingers  could  hardly  buckle  the  stiff  strap 
of  his  revolver  sling,  but  finally  he  made  his  way  down 
stairs  through  a  deep  narrow  hall.  He  turned  from  a 
blank  wall  to  a  darkened  reception  room,  with  polished 
mahogany,  somber  books  and  engravings  on  the  walls, 
and  a  rosy  blur  of  fire  in  the  hearth.  A  more  formal 
chamber  lay  at  his  right,  empty,  but  through  an  opposite 
door  he  caught  the  faint  clatter  of  a  spoon. 

Rosemary  Roselle  was  seated,  rigid  and  white,  at  the 
end  of  a  table  that  bore  a  scattered  array  of  dishes.  There 
were  shadows  beneath  her  eyes,  and  her  hands,  on  the 
table,  were  clenched.  On  her  left  a  man  in  an  unmarked 
blue  uniform  sat,  sagging  heavily  forward  in  his  chair, 
breathing  stertorously,  with  a  dark  flush  over  a  pouched 
and  flaccid  countenance.  Opposite  him,  sitting  formally 
upright,  was  a  negro  in  a  carefully  brushed  gray  suit,  with 

[256] 


ROSEMARY    ROSELLE 

a  crimson  satin  necktie  surcharged  by  vivid  green  light 
ning.  His  bony  face,  the  deep  pits  of  his  temples,  were 
the  dry  spongy  black  of  charcoal,  and  behind  steel- 
rimmed  glasses  his  eyes  rolled  like  yellow  agates.  He 
glanced  about,  furtive  and  startled,  when  Elim  Meikel- 
john  entered,  but  he  was  immediately  reassured  by  Elim's 
disordered  uniform.  He  made  a  solemn  obeisance. 

"  Colonel,"  he  said,  "  will  you  make  one  of  a  little  im- 
formal  repast?  We  are,  you  see,  at  the  lady's  table." 
Overcome  by  a  sharp  weakness,  Elim  slipped  into  the 
chair  at  his  side  and  faced  Rosemary  Roselle.  The 
latter  gave  no  sign  of  his  presence.  She  sat  frozen  into 
a  species  of  statuesque  rage.  "  Like  you,"  the  negro 
continued  pompously,  "  we  invited  ourselves.  All  things 
are  free  and  easy  for  all.  The  glorious  principle  of 
equality  instituted  lately  has  swept  away  —  swept  away 
the  imviderous  distinctions  of  class  and  color.  The  mil- 
lemium  has  come!  "  He  made  a  grandiloquent  gesture 
with  a  sooty  hand. 

"  'Ray !  "  the  sodden  individual  opposite  unexpectedly 
cried. 

"  We  came  in,"  the  other  continued,  "  to  uphold  our 
rights  as  the  expomemts  of  —  of " 

"  You  sneaked  in  the  kitchen,"  the  woman  in  the  door 
way  interrupted;  "  and  I  found  you  rummaging  in  the 
press." 

"Silence!"  the  orator  commanded.  "Are  you  um- 
aware  of  the  dignity  now  resting  on  your  kinks  —  hair, 
hair."  He  rose,  facing  Elim  Meikeljohn.  "  Colonel,  gen 
tleman,  in  a  comglomeration  where  we  are  all  glorious 

cohevals  of  —  of " 

[257] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

"  Shut  up!  "  said  the  apostrophized  colonel,  sudden  and 
fretful.  "Get  out!  " 

The  orator  paused,  disconcerted,  in  the  midflow  of  his 
figures;  and  unaccustomed  arrogance  struggled  with  habit 
ual  servility.  "  Gentleman,"  he  repeated,  "  in  a  corposity 
of  souls  high  above  all  narrow  malignations " 

Elim  Meikeljohn  took  his  revolver  from  its  holster 
and  laid  it  before  him  on  the  table.  The  weapon  pro 
duced  an  electrical  effect  on  the  figure  nodding  in  a 
drunken  stupor.  He  rose  abruptly  and  uncertain. 

"  I'm  going,"  he  asserted;  "  come  on,  Spout.  You  can 
be  free  and  equal  better  somewheres  else." 

The  negro  hesitated;  his -hand,  Elim  saw,  moved  slightly 
toward  a  knife  lying  by  his  plate.  Elim's  fingers  closed 
about  the  handle  of  his  revolver;  he  gazed  with  a  steady 
cold  glitter,  a  thin  mouth,  at  the  black  masklike  counte 
nance  above  the  hectic  tie  and  neat  gray  suit. 

The  latter  backed  slowly,  instinctively,  toward  the  rear 
door.  His  companion  had  already  faded  from  view.  The 
negro  proclaimed: 

"  I  go  momentiously.  There  are  others  of  us  banded 
to  obtain  equality  irrespectable  of  color;  we  shall  be  back 
and  things  will  go  different.  .  .  .  They  have  gone  different 
in  other  prideful  domestications." 

Elim  Meikeljohn  raised  the  muzzle  lying  on  the  cloth, 
and  the  negro  disappeared.  Rosemary  Roselle  did  not 
move;  her  level  gaze  saw,  apparently,  nothing  of  her  sur 
roundings;  her  hands  were  still  clenched  on  the  board. 
She  was  young,  certainly  not  twenty,  but  her  oval  counte 
nance  was  capable  of  a  mature  severity  not  to  be  ignored. 
He  saw  that  she  had  wide  brown  eyes  the  color  of  a  fall 

[258] 


ROSEMARY    ROSELLE 

willow  leaf,  a  high-bridged  nose  and  a  mouth  —  at  pres 
ent  —  a  marvel  of  contempt.  Her  slight  figure  was  in  a 
black  dress;  she  was  without  rings  or  ornamental  gold. 

"  That  talking  trash  gave  me  a  cold  misery,"  the  col 
ored  woman  admitted.  She  glanced  at  the  girl  and  moved 
a  bowl  of  salad  nearer  Elim  Meikeljohn.  "  Miss  Rose 
mary,"  she  begged,  "  take  something,  my  heart." 

Rosemary  Roselle  answered  with  a  slow  shudder;  she 
slipped  forward,  with  her  face  buried  in  her  arms  on  the 
table.  Elim  regarded  her  with  profound  mingled  emo 
tions.  In  the  fantastic  past,  when  he  had  created  her 
from  the  studied  essays,  he  had  thought  of  her  —  censori 
ously  —  as  gay.  Perhaps  she  danced !  He  wondered  mo 
mentarily  where  the  men  were  Indy  had  spoken  of  as 
present;  then  he  realized  that  they  had  been  but  a  pre 
cautionary  figment  of  Indy's  imagination;  the  girl,  except 
for  the  woman  with  the  tender  brown  hand  caressing  her 
shoulder,  was  alone  in  the  house. 

He  sat  with  chin  on  breast  gazing  with  serious  specu 
lation  at  the  crumpled  figure  opposite  him.  Indy,  corrob 
orating  his  surmise,  said  to  the  girl : 

"  I  can't  make  out  at  all  why  your  papa  don't  come 
back.  He  said  yesterday  when  he  left  he  wouldn't  be 
hardly  an  hour." 

"  Something  dreadful  has  happened,"  Rosemary  Ro 
selle  insisted,  raising  a  hopeless  face.  "  Indy,  do  you  sup 
pose  he's  dead  like  McCall  and  —  and " 

"  Mr.  Roselle  he  ain't  dead,"  the  woman  responded 
stoutly;  "he's  just  had  to  keep  low  trash  from  stealing 
all  his  tobacco." 

"  He  could  easily  be  found,"  Elim  put  in;  "  I  could 
[259] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

have  an  orderly  detailed,  word  brought  you  in  no  time." 
The  girl  paid  not  the  slightest  heed  to  his  proposal.  From 
the  street  came  a  hoarse  drunken  shouting,  a  small  in 
flamed  rabble  streamed  by.  It  wouldn't  be  safe  to  leave 
Rosemary  Roselle  alone  here  with  Indy.  He  recalled  the 
threat  of  the  black  pomposity  he  had  driven  from  the 
house  —  it  was  possible  that  there  were  others,  banded, 
and  that  they  would  return.  It  was  clear  to  him  that  he 
must  stay  until  its  head  reappeared,  order  had  been  re 
established  —  or,  if  he  went  out,  take  the  girl  with  him. 

"  You  let  the  capt'n  do  what  he  says/'  the  woman  urged. 
Rosemary  Roselle's  eyes  turned  toward  Elim;  it  was,  seem 
ingly,  the  first  time  she  had  become  aware  of  his  presence. 
She  said  in  a  voice  delicately  colored  by  hate: 

"  Thank  you,  I  couldn't  think  of  taking  the  —  the  or 
derly  from  his  conquests." 

"Then  I'll  find  your  father  myself,"  Elim  replied. 
"  You  will  come  with  me,  of  course;  show  me  where  to  go. 
It  would  be  a  good  thing  to  start  at  once.  I  —  we  — 
might  be  of  some  assistance  to  him  with  his  tobacco." 

Indy  declared  with  an  expression  of  instant  determina 
tion: 

"  We'll  go  right  along  with  you."  She  silenced  Rose 
mary's  instinctive  protest.  "  I'll  get  your  hat  and  shawl," 
she  told  the  girl. 

And,  before  the  latter  could  object,  the  colored  woman 
hurried  from  the  room. 

Silence  enveloped  the  two  at  the  table.  Elim  replaced 
his  revolver  in  its  belt.  He  had  never  before  studied  a 
girl  like  Rosemary  Roselle ;  fine  white  frills  fell  about  her 

[260] 


ROSEMARY    ROSELLE 

elbows  from  under  the  black  short  sleeves.  Her  skin  was 
incredibly  smooth  and  white.  It  was  evident  that  her 
hands  had  never  done  manual  labor;  their  pointed  little 
beauty  fascinated  him.  He  thought  of  the  toil-hardened 
hands  of  the  women  of  his  home.  This  girl  represented 
all  that  he  had  been  taught  to  abjure,  all  that  —  by  inher 
itance —  he  had  in  the  abstract  condemned.  She  repre 
sented  the  vanities ;  she  was  vanity  itself ;  and  now  he  was 
recklessly,  contumaciously,  glad  of  it.  Her  sheer  loveli 
ness  of  being  intoxicated  him;  suddenly  it  seemed  as  abso 
lutely  necessary  to  life  as  the  virtues  of  moral  rectitude 
and  homely  labor.  Personally,  he  discovered,  he  preferred 
such  beauty  to  the  latter  adamantine  qualities.  He  had  a 
fleet  moment  of  amazed  self-consciousness:  Elim  Meikel- 
john  —  his  father  an  elder  in  the  house  of  God  —  astray 
in  the  paths  of  condemned  worldly  frivolities!  Then  he 
recalled  a  little  bush  of  vivid  red  roses  his  mother  care 
fully  protected  and  cultivated;  he  saw  their  bright  fra 
grant  patch  on  the  rocky  gray  expanse  of  the  utilitarian 
acres;  and  suddenly  a  light  of  new  understanding  envel 
oped  his  mother's  gaunt  drearily-clad  figure.  He  em 
ployed  in  this  connection  the  surprising  word  "  starved." 
.  .  .  Rosemary  Roselle  was  a  flower. 

Indy  returned  with  a  small  hat  of  honey-colored  straw 
and  a  soft  white-silk  mantilla.  The  former  she  drew 
upon  the  girl's  head  and  wrapped  the  shawl  about  the  slim 
shoulders. 

"  Now,"  she  pronounced  decisively,  "  we're  going  to 
find  your  papa."  She  led  Rosemary  Roselle  toward  the 
outer  door.  Elim  found  his  cap  in  the  hall  and  followed 

[261] 


THE   HAPPY    END 

them  down  the  bricked  steps  to  the  street.  It  was  at  pres 
ent  deserted,  quiet;  and  they  turned  to  the  left,  making 
their  way  toward  the  river  and  warehouses. 

The  fires  had  largely  subsided;  below  them  rose  black 
ened  bare  walls  of  brick,  sullen  twisting  flags  of  smoke; 
an  air  of  sooty  desolation  had  settled  over  the  city. 
Houses  were  tightly  shuttered;  some  with  broken  doors 
had  a  trail  of  hastily  discarded  loot  on  the  porticoes;  still 
others  were  smoldering  shells. 

A  bugle  call  rose  clear  and  triumphant  from  the  capitol ; 
at  one  place  they  passed  Union  soldiers,  extinguishing 
flames. 

They  descended  the  flagged  street  over  which  Elim  had 
come,  turned  into  another  called  —  he  saw  —  Gary,  and 
finally  halted  before  a  long  somber  fagade.  Here,  too, 
the  fire  had  raged;  the  charred  timbers  of  the  fallen  roof 
projected  desolately  into  air. 

A  small  group  at  a  main  entrance  faced  them  as  they  ap 
proached;  a  coatless  man  with  haggard  features,  his  clothes 
saturated  with  water,  advanced  quickly. 

"Miss  Rosemary!  "  he  ejaculated  in  palpable  dismay. 
He  drew  Elim  Meikeljohn  aside.  "  Take  her  away,"  he 
directed;  "her  father  .  .  .  killed,  trying  to  save  his 
papers." 

"  Where?  "  Elim  demanded.  "  Their  house  is  empty. 
She  can't  stay  in  Richmond  alone." 

"I'd  forgotten  that!"  the  other  admitted.  "  McCall 
and  John  both  gone,  mother  dead,  and  now  —  by 
heaven!  "  he  exclaimed,  low  and  distressed,  "  she  has  just 
no  one.  I'm  without  a  place.  Her  friends  have  left. 

[262] 


ROSEMARY    ROSELLE 

There's  a  distant  connection  at  Bramant's  Wharf,  but 
that's  almost  at  the  mouth  of  the  James." 

Rosemary  Roselle  came  up  to  them. 

"  Mr.  Jim  Haxall,"  she  asked,  direct  and  white,  "  is 
father  dead?" 

He  studied  her  for  a  moment  and  then  answered : 

"  Yes,  Miss  Rosemary." 

She  swayed.  Indy,  at  her  side,  enveloped  her  in  a 
sustaining  arm. 

"  Indy,"  the  girl  said,  her  face  on  the  woman's  breast, 
"he,  too!" 

"  I'm  sending  a  few  bales  of  leaf  down  the  river," 
Haxall  continued  to  Elim;  "the  sloop '11  pass  Bramant's 
Wharf;  but  the  crew  will  be  just  anybody.  Miss  Rose 
mary  couldn't  go  with  only  her  nigger " 

Elim  Meikeljohn  spoke  mechanically: 

"  I'll  be  responsible  for  her."  The  war  was  over;  he 
had  been  ordered  from  the  column  when  his  wound  had 
broken  afresh,  and  in  a  maze  of  fever  he  had  been  irre 
sistibly  impelled  toward  Linden  Row.  "I'll  take  her  to 
Bramant's  Wharf." 

Haxall  regarded  suspiciously  the  disordered  blue  uni 
form;  then  his  gaze  shifted  to  Elim's  somber  lined  counte 
nance. 

"  Miss  Rosemary's  rubies  and  gold "  he  said 

finally.  "  But  I  believe  you're  honest,  I  believe  you're  a 
good  man." 


[263] 


THE    HAPPY    END 
VIII 

James  Haxall  explained  this  to  Rosemary.  Elim, 
standing  aside,  could  see  that  the  girl  neither  assented  nor 
raised  objection.  She  seemed  utterly  listless;  a  fleet  emo 
tion  at  the  knowledge  of  her  father's  death  had,  in  that 
public  place,  been  immediately  repressed.  The  sloop, 
Elim  learned,  was  ready  to  start  at  once.  The  afternoon 
was  declining;  to  reach  Bramant's  Wharf  would  take  them 
through  the  night  and  into  the  meridian  of  to-morrow. 
They  had  made  no  preparations  for  the  trip,  there  was 
neither  bedding  nor  food;  but  Elim  and  Haxall  agreed 
that  it  was  best  for  Rosemary  Roselle  to  leave  the  city  at 
the  price  of  any  slight  momentary  discomfort. 

Elim  looked  about  for  a  place  where  he  might  purchase 
food.  A  near-by  eating  house  had  been  completely 
wrecked,  its  floor  a  debris  of  broken  crockery.  Beyond, 
a  baker's  shop  had  been  deserted,  its  window  shattered  but 
the  interior  intact.  The  shelves,  however,  had  been  swept 
bare  of  loaves.  Elim  searched  behind  the  counters  — 
nothing  remained.  But  in  walking  out  his  foot  struck 
against  a  round  object,  wrapped  in  paper,  which  on  inves 
tigation  proved  to  be  a  fruit  cake  of  satisfactory  solidity 
and  size.  With  this  beneath  his  arm  he  returned  to  Rose 
mary  Roselle,  and  they  followed  Haxall  to  the  wharf  where 
the  sloop  lay. 

The  tiller  was  in  charge  of  an  old  man  with  peering 
pale-blue  eyes  and  tremulous  siccated  hands.  Yet  he  had 
an  astonishingly  potent  voice,  and  issued  orders,  in  tones 
like  the  grating  of  metal  edges,  to  a  loutish  youth  in  a 
ragged  shirt  and  bare  legs.  The  cabin,  partly  covered, 

[264] 


ROSEMARY    ROSELLE 

was  filled  with  bagged  bales;  a  small  space  had  been  left 
for  the  steersman,  and  forward  the  deck  was  littered  with 
untidy  ropes  and  swab,  windlass  bar  and  other  odds. 

Elim  Meikeljohn  moved  forward  to  assist  Rosemary  on 
to  the  sloop,  but  she  evaded  his  hand  and  jumped  lightly 
down  upon  the  deck.  Indy,  grumbling  and  certain  of 
catastrophe,  was  safely  got  aboard,  and  Elim  helped  the 
youth  to  push  the  craft's  bow  out  into  the  stream.  The 
grimy  mainsail  rose  slowly,  the  jib  was  set,  and  they  de 
liberately  gathered  way,  slipping  silently  between  the  tim 
bered  banks,  emerging  from  the  thin  pungent  influence 
of  the  smoking  ruins. 

Behind  them  the  sun  transfused  the  veiled  city  into  a 
coppery  blur  that  gradually  sank  into  a  tender-blue  dusk. 
Indy  had  arranged  a  place  with  the  most  obtainable  com 
fort  for  Rosemary  Roselle;  she  sat  with  her  back  against 
the  mast,  gazing  toward  the  bank,  stealing  backward,  at 
the  darkening  trees  moving  in  solemn  procession. 

After  the  convulsed  and  burning  city,  the  uproar  of 
guns  and  clash  of  conflict,  the  quiet  progress  of  the  sloop 
was  incredibly  peaceful  and  withdrawn.  Elim  felt  as  if 
they  had  been  detached  from  the  familiar  material  exist 
ence  and  had  been  set  afloat  in  a  stream  of  silken  shadows. 
The  wind  was  behind  them,  the  boom  had  been  let  far  out, 
the  old  steersman  drowsed  at  his  post,  and  the  youth 
had  fallen  instantly  asleep  in  a  strange  cramped  attitude. 

Elim  was  standing  at  the  stern  —  he  had  conceived  it 
his  duty  to  stay  as  far  away  from  Rosemary  Roselle  as  her 
wish  plainly  indicated;  but,  in  this  irrelated  phase  of 
living,  he  gradually  lost  his  sense  of  responsibility  and 
restrained  conduct.  He  wanted  extravagantly  to  be  near 

[265] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

Rosemary,  to  be  where  he  could  see  her  clearly.  Perhaps, 
but  this  was  unlikely,  she  would  speak  to  him.  His  desire 
gradually  flooded  him;  it  induced  a  species  of  careless 
heroism,  and  he  made  his  way  resolutely  forward  and  sat 
on  a  heap  of  rope  at  a  point  where  he  could  study  her  with 
moderate  propriety  and  success.  She  glanced  at  him  mo 
mentarily  when  he  took  his  place  —  he  saw  that  her  under 
lip  was  capable  of  an  extremely  human  and  annoying 
expression  —  and  returned  to  her  veiled  scrutiny  of  the 
sliding  banks. 

An  unfamiliar  emotion  stirred  at  Elim's  heart;  and  in 
his  painstaking  introspective  manner  he  exposed  it.  He 
found  a  happiness  that,  at  the  same  time,  was  a  pain;  he 
found  an  actual  catch  in  his  throat  that  was  a  nebulous 
desire;  he  found  an  utter  loneliness  together  with  the  con 
viction  that  this  earth  was  a  place  of  glorious  possibilities 
of  affinity.  Principally  he  was  conscious  of  an  urging  of 
his  entire  being  toward  the  slight  figure  in  black,  staring 
with  wide  bereft  eyes  into  the  gathering  evening.  On  the 
other  side  of  the  mast,  Indy  was  sleeping  with  her  head 
upon  her  breast.  The  feeling  in  Elim  steadily  increased 
in  poignancy  —  faint  stars  appearing  above  the  indefinite 
foliage  pierced  him  with  their  beauty,  the  ashen-blue  sky 
vibrated  in  a  singing  chord,  the  river  divided  in  whisper 
ing  confidences  on  the  bow  of  the  sloop. 

Elim  Meikeljohn  debated  the  wisdom  of  a  remark;  his 
courage  grew  immeasurably  reckless. 

"  The  wind  and  river  are  shoving  us  along  together." 
Pronounced,  the  sentence  seemed  appallingly  compromis 
ing;  he  had  meant  that  the  wind  and  river  together, 

not 

[266] 


ROSEMARY    ROSELLE 

She  made  no  reply;  one  hand,  he  saw,  stirred  slightly. 

Since  he  had  not  been  blasted  into  nothingness,  he  con 
tinued  : 

"I'm  glad  the  war's  over.  Why,"  he  exclaimed  in  gen 
uine  surprise,  "  you  can  hear  the  birds  again."  A  sleepy 
twitter  had  floated  out  over  the  stream.  Still  no  response. 
He  should  not,  certainly,  have  mentioned  the  war.  He 
wondered  desperately  what  a  fine  and  delicate  being  like 
Rosemary  Roselle  talked  about?  It  would  be  wise  to 
avoid  serious  and  immediate  considerations  for  common 
places. 

"  Ellik  McCosh,"  he  said,  "  a  girl  in  our  village  who 
went  to  Boston,  learned  to  dance,  and  when  she  came  back 
she  taught  two  or  three.  Her  communion  medal  was  re 
moved  from  her,"  he  added  with  complete  veracity.  "  Per 
haps,"  he  went  on  conversationally,  "  you  don't  have 
communion  medals  in  Richmond  —  it's  a  little  lead  piece 
you  have  when  you  are  in  good  standing  at  the  Lord's 
table.  Mine  was  taken  away  for  three  months  for  whis 
tling  by  the  church  door.  A  long  while  ago,"  he  ended  in 
a  different  voice.  He  thought  of  the  fruit  cake,  and 
breaking  off  a  piece  offered  it  to  the  silent  girl. 

"  It's  like  your  own,"  he  told  her,  placing  it  on  a  piece 
of  paper  at  her  side;  "it's  from  Richmond  and  wasn't 
even  paid  for  with  strange  silver." 

At  this  last  a  sudden  uneasiness  possessed  him,  and  he 
hurriedly  searched  his  pockets.  He  had  exactly  fifty 
cents.  Until  the  present  he  had  totally  overlooked  the 
depleted  state  of  his  fortune.  Elim  had  some  arrears  of 
pay,  but  now  he  seriously  doubted  whether  they  were  col 
lectible.  Nothing  else.  He  had  emerged  from  the  war 

[267] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

brevetted  major  but  as  penniless  as  the  morning  of  his 
enlistment.  He  doubted  whether,  in  the  hurry  of  depart 
ure,  Rosemary  Roselle  had  remembered  to  bring  any 
money. 

Still,  she  would  be  cared  for,  supplied  with  every  neces 
sity,  at  Bramant's  Wharf.  There  he  would  leave  her  .  .  . 
his  breathing  stopped,  for,  incredibly,  he  saw  that  her  hand 
was  suspended  over  the  piece  of  cake.  She  took  it  up  and 
ate  it  slowly,  absently.  This,  he  felt,  had  created  a  bond 
between  them;  but  it  was  a  conviction  in  which,  appar 
ently,  she  had  no  share.  She  might  have  thanked  him  but 
she  didn't. 

An  underhanded  and  indefensible  expedient  occurred 
to  him,  and  he  sat  for  a  perceptible  number  of  minutes 
concentrating  his  memory  upon  a  dim  and  special  object. 
Finally  he  raised  his  head. 

"  Indy,"  he  quoted,  "  a  large  light  mulatto,  hasn't  much 
sense  but  a  great  deal  of  sensibility.  That,"  he  added  of 
himself,  "  is  evidently  very  well  observed."  He  saw  that 
Rosemary  turned  her  head  with  an  impatient  curiosity. 
"  She  is  very  unfortunate,"  he  continued  uncertainly;  "  she 
lost  a  present  of  money  and  couldn't  work  till  it  was  given 
back." 

"  But  how,"  demanded  Rosemary  Roselle,  "  did  you 
know  that?  "  Curiosity  had  betrayed  her. 

Elim  Meikeljohn  concealed  a  grin  with  difficulty.  It 
was  evident  that  she  profoundly  regretted  the  lapse,  yet 
she  would  not  permit  herself  to  retreat  from  her  position. 
She  maintained  a  high  intolerant  aspect  of  query. 

"  Have  you  forgotten,"  he  went  on,  "  how  the  dread  day 
[268] 


ROSEMARY    ROSELLE 

rolled  around?  "  He  paused  wickedly.  "  The  slough  of 
despond?  "  he  added. 

"  What  silly  stuff !  "  Rosemary  pronounced. 

"  It  was,"  he  agreed,  "  mostly.  But  the  paper  about 
Indy  was  a  superior  production.  B  plus,  I  think." 

A  slow  comprehension  dawned  on  her  face,  blurred  by 
the  night. 

"So  that's  where  they  went,"  she  observed;  "you 
marked  them."  He  would  have  sworn  that  a  smile  hov 
ered  for  the  fraction  of  a  moment  on  her  pale  lips.  She 
drew  up  her  shoulders  slightly  and  turned  away. 

His  best,  his  only  hope  had  flickered  for  a  minute  and 
died  away.  Her  silence  was  like  impregnable  armor.  A 
puff  of  wind  filled  the  sails,  there  was  a  straining  of  cord 
age,  an  augmented  bubbling  at  the  sloop's  bow,  and  then 
the  stir  subsided.  He  passed  into  a  darkness  of  old  dis 
tresses,  forebodings,  grim  recollections  from  his  boyhood, 
inherited  bleak  memories.  Rosemary  Roselle's  upright 
figure  gradually  sank.  He  realized  that  she  was  asleep 
on  her  arm.  Elim  bent  forward  shamelessly  and  studied 
her  worn  countenance.  There  was  a  trace  of  tears  on  her 
cheek.  She  was  as  delicate,  as  helpless  as  a  flower  sleep 
ing  on  its  stalk. 

An  impulse  to  touch  her  hair  was  so  compelling  that  he 
started  back,  shaken;  a  new  discordant  tumult  rose  within 
him,  out  of  which  emerged  an  aching  hunger  for  Rosemary 
Roselle;  he  wanted  her  with  a  passion  cold  and  numbing 
like  ether.  He  wanted  her  without  reason,  and  in  the 
desire  lost  his  deep  caution,  his  rectitude  of  conscience. 
He  was  torn  far  beyond  the  emotional  possibilities  of  weak 

[269] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

men.  The  fact  that,  penniless  and  without  a  home,  he 
had  nothing  to  offer  was  lost  in  the  beat  and  surge  of  his 
feelings.  He  went  with  the  smashing  completeness  of  a 
heavy  body,  broken  loose  in  an  elemental  turmoil.  He 
wanted  her;  her  fragrant  spirit,  the  essence  that  was  her 
self,  Rosemary  Roselle.  He  couldn't  take  it;  such  con 
summations,  he  realized,  were  beyond  will  and  act,  they  re 
sponded  from  planes  forever  above  human  desire  —  there 
was  not  even  a  rift  of  hope.  The  banks  had  been  long 
lost  in  the  night;  the  faint  disembodied  cry  of  an  owl 
breathed  across  the  invisible  river. 


IX 

She  woke  with  a  little  confused  cry,  and  sat  gazing  dis 
tractedly  into  the  dark,  her  hands  pressed  to  her  cheeks. 

"  Don't  you  remember,"  Elim  Meikeljohn  spoke,  "  Hax- 
all  and  the  sloop;  your  relatives  at  Bramant's  Wharf?  " 

She  returned  to  a  full  consciousness  of  her  surroundings. 

"  I  was  dreaming  so  differently,"  she  told  him.  It 
seemed  to  Elim  that  the  antagonism  had  departed  from 
her  voice;  he  even  had  a  feeling  that  she  was  glad  of  his 
presence.  Indy,  prostrate  on  the  deck  with  her  chin  ele 
vated  to  the  stars,  had  not  moved. 

The  darkness  increased,  broken  only  by  the  colored 
glimmer  of  the  port  and  starboard  lights  and  a  wan  blur 
about  the  old  man  bent  over  the  tiller.  Once  he  woke  the 
youth  and  sent  him  forward  with  a  sounding  pole,  once  the 
sloop  scraped  heavily  over  a  mud  bank,  but  that  was  all : 
their  imperceptible  progress  was  smooth,  unmarked. 

Elim,  recalling  Joshua,  wished  that  the  sloop  and  night 
[270] 


ROSEMARY    ROSELLE 

were  anchored,  stationary.  Already  he  smelled  the  dawn 
in  a  newly  stirring,  cold  air.  The  darkness  thickened. 
Rosemary  Roselle  said: 

"  I'm  dreadfully  hungry." 

He  immediately  produced  the  fruit  cake. 

"  It's  really  quite  satisfactory,"  she  continued,  eating; 
"  It's  like  the  rest  of  this  —  unreal.  .  .  .  What  is  your 
name?  "  she  demanded  unexpectedly. 

"  Elim  Meikeljohn." 

"  That's  a  very  Northern  sort  of  name." 

"  It  would  be  hard  to  come  by  one  more  so,"  he  agreed. 
"  It's  from  the  highlands  of  Scotland." 

"  Then  if  you  don't  mind,  I'll  think  of  you  as  Scotch 
right  now." 

He  conveyed  to  her  the  fact  that  he  didn't. 

"  Look!  "  she  exclaimed.      "  There's  the  morning!  " 

A  thin  gray  streak  widened  across  the  east.  Almost 
immediately  the  night  dissolved.  They  were  sweeping 
down  the  middle  of  a  river  that  surprised  Elim  with  its 
width  and  majesty.  The  withdrawn  banks  bore  clustered 
trees,  undulating  green  reached  inland,  the  shaded  facades 
of  houses  sat  back  on  lawns  that  dipped  to  the  stream. 

Rosemary  Roselle's  face  was  pale  with  fatigue ;  her  eyes 
appeared  preternaturally  large;  and  this,  for  Elim,  made 
her  charm  infinitely  more  appealing.  She  smoothed  her 
dress,  touched  her  hair  with  light  fingers.  The  intimacy 
of  it  all  thrilled  him.  A  feeling  of  happy  irresponsibility 
deepened.  He  lost  sight  of  the  probable  unhappiness  of 
to-morrow,  the  catastrophe  that  was  yesterday;  Elim  was 
radiantly  content  with  the  present. 

"You  look  Northern  too,"  she  went  on;  "you  are  so 
[271] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

much  more  solemn  than  the  Virginia  men  —  I  mean  your 
face  is." 

"  I  suppose  I've  had  a  solemn  sort  of  existence,"  he 
agreed.  "  Life's  an  awful  serious  thing  where  I  was  born. 
The  days  are  not  long  enough,  life's  too  short,  to  get  your 
work  done.  It's  a  stony  pasture,"  he  admitted.  He  de 
scribed  the  Meikeljohn  farm  land,  sloping  steeply  to  swift 
rocky  streams,  the  bare  existence  of  the  sheep,  the  bitter 
winters.  He  touched  briefly  on  Hester  and  his  marriage. 

"  It's  no  wonder,"  she  pronounced,  "  that  you  have 
shadows  in  your  eyes.  You  can't  imagine,"  she  continued, 

"  how  wonderful  everything  was  in  Richmond,  before 

I  simply  can't  talk  about  it  now.  I  suppose  we  are 
ruined,  but  there  isn't  a  man  or  woman  who  wouldn't  do 
the  same  thing  all  over  again.  I'm  almost  glad  that  father 
isn't  —  isn't  here;  misery  of  any  kind  made  him  so 
wretched  .  .  .  perfect  memories."  She  closed  her  eyes, 

Her  under  lip,  he  saw,  projected  slightly,  her  chin  was 
fine  but  stubborn.  These  details  renewed  his  delight; 
they  lent  a  warm  humanity  to  her  charm. 

"  Any  one  would  know,"  she  said,  regarding  him,  "  that 
you  are  absolutely  trustworthy.  It's  a  nice  quality  now, 
but  I  don't  think  I  would  have  noticed  it  even  a  month 
ago.  You  can  see  that  I  have  grown  frightfully  old  in 
the  littlest  while.  Yes,  you  are  comfortable  to  be  with, 
and  I  suspect  that  counts  for  a  great  deal.  It's  quite  sad, 
too,  to  grow  old.  Oh,  look,  we've  changed!  Where  do 
you  suppose  he  is  going?  This  can't  nearly  be  Bra- 
mant's." 

The  mainsail  had  been  hauled  in,  and  the  course  of  the 
sloop  changed,  quartering  in  toward  the  shore. 

[272] 


ROSEMARY    ROSELLE 

The  youth,  moving  forward,  stopped  to  enlighten  them. 
He  jerked  a  thumb  in  the  direction  of  the  old  man. 

"  He's  got  kin  here  at  Jerico,"  he  explained;  "  and  we're 
setting  in  to  see  them.  We  won't  stop  long." 

The  mainsail  came  smoothly  down,  the  jib  fluttered,  and 
the  sloop  slid  in  beside  a  sturdy  old  wharf,  projecting 
from  a  deep  fringe  of  willows.  No  sign  of  life  or  habita 
tion  was  visible. 

The  youth  made  fast  a  hawser,  the  old  man  mounted 
painfully  to  the  dock,  and  Indy  stirred  and  rose. 

"  I  must  have  just  winked  asleep,"  she  declared  in  con 
sternation. 

Rosemary  Roselle  lightly  left  the  boat,  and  Elim  fol 
lowed.  "If  we  explored,"  he  proposed,  "  perhaps  we 
could  get  you  a  cup  of  coffee."  She  elected,  however,  to 
stay  by  the  river,  and  Elim  went  inward  alone.  Beyond 
the  willows  was  an  empty  marshland.  The  old  man  had 
disappeared,  with  no  trace  of  his  objective  kin.  A  road, 
deep  in  yellow  mire,  mounted  a  rise  beyond  and  vanished 
a  hundred  yards  distant.  Elim,  unwilling  to  get  too  far 
away  from  the  sloop,  had  turned  and  moved  toward  the 
wharf,  when  he  was  halted  by  the  sound  of  horses' 
hoofs, 

He  saw  approaching  him  over  the  road  a  light  open 
carriage  with  a  fringed  canopy  and  a  pair  of  horses 
driven  by  a  negro  in  a  long  white  dust  coat.  In  the  body 
of  the  carriage  a  diminutive  bonneted  head  was  barely 
visible  above  an  enormous  circumference  of  hoops.  Elim 
saw  bobbing  gray  curls,  peering  anxious  eyes,  and  a  flut 
tering  hand  in  a  black  silk-thread  mit. 

"  Gossard,"  a  feminine  voice  cried  shrilly  to  the  driver, 
[273] 


THE   HAPPY    END 

at  the  sight  of  Elim  on  the  roadside,  "  here's  a  Yankee 
army;  lick  up  those  horses!  " 

The  negro  swung  a  vicious  whip,  the  horses  started 
sharply  forward,  but  the  carriage  wheels,  sinking  in  a  deep 
slough,  remained  fixed;  the  harness  creaked  but  held;  the 
equipage  remained  stationary.  The  negro  dismounted 
sulkily,  and  Elim  crossed  the  road  and  put  his  shoulder  to 
a  wheel.  Together  with  the  driver,  he  lifted  the  carriage 
on  to  a  firmer  surface.  The  old  lady  was  seated  with 
tightly  shut  eyes. 

"  This  here  man  ain't  going  to  hurt  you,"  the  driver 
exclaimed  impatiently.  "  This  exdus  is  all  nonsense  any 
ways,"  he  grumbled.  "  I  got  a  mind  to  stop  —  I'm  free." 

She  directed  upon  him  a  beady  black  gaze. 

"  You  get  right  into  this  carriage,"  she  commanded ; 
"  you'd  be  free  to  starve.  You  are  a  fool !  "  The  man 
reluctantly  obeyed  her.  "  I  thank  you  for  your  clemency," 
she  said  to  Elim.  She  fumbled  among  her  flounces  and 
hoops  and  produced  an  object  carefully  wrapped  and  tied. 
"  Here,"  she  proclaimed;  "  I  can  still  pay  for  a  service. 

Gossard "  the  carriage  moved  forward,  was  lost  in  the 

dip  in  the  road.  Elim  opened  the  package  in  his  hand 
and  regarded,  with  something  like  consternation,  a  bottle 
of  champagne. 

Beyond  the  wharf  the  great  yellow  flood  of  the  river 
gleamed  in  the  sun;  choirs  of  robins  whistled  in  trees 
faintly  green.  Rosemary  Roselle  was  seated  with  her  feet 
hanging  over  the  water. 

"  Champagne  for  breakfast,"  she  observed,  shaking  her 
head;  "  only  the  most  habitual  sports  manage  that."  He 
recounted  the  episode  of  the  "  Yankee  army,"  delighted  by 

[274] 


ROSEMARY    ROSELLE 

her  less  formal  tone,  then  the  old  man  returned  as  enig 
matically  as  he  had  disappeared.  The  ropes  were  cast 
off,  the  sloop  swung  out  into  the  current,  and  their  smooth 
progress  was  resumed. 

A  few  more  hours  and  they  would  be  at  Bramant's 
Wharf.  There,  Elim  knew,  he  would  be  expected  to  leave 
Rosemary.  There  would  be  a  perfunctory  gratitude  from 
her  relatives,  perhaps  a  warmer  appreciation  from  her 
self  —  a  moment  —  a  momentary  pressure  of  her  hand  — 
and  then  —  where  ?  He  would  never  again  come  in  con 
tact  with  so  exquisite  a  girl;  they  were,  he  realized,  cus 
tomarily  held  in  a  circle  where  men  like  himself,  outsiders, 
rarely  penetrated ;  once  more  with  her  family  and  he  would 
be  forgotten.  Anyhow,  he  had  nothing. 

But  in  spite  of  these  heavy  reflections  his  irresponsible 
happiness  increased.  In  this  segment  of  existence  no 
qualifications  from  the  shore  were  valid.  Time,  himself, 
at  the  tiller,  seemed  drifting,  unconcerned.  Rosemary 
Roselle  regarded  Elim  with  a  franker  interest.  She  took 
off  a  small  slipper  and  emptied  some  sand  from  the  shore; 
the  simple  act  seemed  to  him  burdened  with  gracious 
warmth.  Now  she  was  infinitely  easier  than  any  girl  he 
had  known  before.  Those  about  his  home  met  the  younger 
masculine  world  either  with  a  blunt  sarcasm  or  with  an 
uneasy  voiceless  propriety.  Rosemary,  propped  on  an 
elbow,  was  as  unconcerned  as  a  boy.  This  made  her 
infinitely  more  difficult  of  approach. 

Her  slight  beautiful  body,  not  hidden  by  clothes  —  as  de 
cency  demanded  in  the  more  primitive  state  —  was  de 
lightfully  marked,  suggested.  Here  was  beauty  admitted, 
lauded,  even  studied,  in  place  of  the  fierce  masking 

[275] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

and  denouncement  of  his  father  and  the  fellow  elders. 

He  remembered,  from  collegiate  hours,  the  passion  of 
the  Greeks  for  sheer  earthly  strength  and  loveliness  — 
Helen  and  Menelaus,  Sappho  on  the  green  promontories 
of  Lesbos.  At  the  time  of  his  reading  he  had  maintained 
a  wry  brow  .  .  .  now  Elim  Meikeljohn  could  compre 
hend  the  siege  of  Troy. 

He  said  aloud,  without  thinking  and  instantly  aghast 
at  his  words: 

"  You  are  like  a  bodied  song."  He  was  horrified;  then 
his  newer  spirit  utterly  possessed  him,  he  didn't  care;  he 
nodded  his  long  solemn  head. 

Rosemary  Roselle  turned  toward  him  with  a  cool  stare 
that  was  lost  in  irresistible  ringing  peals  of  laughter. 

"Oh!  "  she  gasped;  "what  a  face  for  a  compliment. 
It  was  just  like  pouring  sirup  out  of  a  vinegar  cruet." 

He  became  annoyed  and  cleared  his  throat  in  an  elder- 
like  manner,  but  her  amusement  strung  out  in  silvery 
chuckles. 

"It's  the  first  I've  said  of  the  kind,"  he  admitted 
stiffly;  "  I've  no  doubt  it  came  awkward." 

She  grew  more  serious,  studied  him  with  thoughtful 
eyes.  "  Do  you  know,"  she  said  slowly,  "  I  believe  you. 
Compliments  in  Virginia  are  like  cherries,  the  trees  are 
full  of  them;  they're  nice  but  worth  —  so  much."  She 
measured  an  infinitesimal  degree  with  a  rosy  nail  against 
a  finger.  "  But  I  can  see  that  yours  are  different.  They 
almost  hurt  you,  don't  they?  " 

He  made  no  reply,  struggling  weakly  against  what,  he 
perceived,  was  to  follow. 

"  You're  like  a  song  that  to  hear  would  draw  a  man 
[276] 


ROSEMARY    ROSELLE 

about  the  world,"  said  Elim  Meikeljohn,  pagan.  "He 
would  leave  his  sheep  and  byre,  he'd  drop  his  duty  and 
desert  his  old,  and  follow.  I'm  lost,"  he  decided,  in  a 
last  perishing  flicker  of  early  teaching;  and  then  he  smiled 
inexplicably  at  the  wrath  to  come. 

Rosemary  Roselle  grew  more  serious. 

"  But  that's  not  a  compliment  at  all,"  she  discovered; 
"  it's  more,  and  it  makes  me  uncomfortable.  Please 
stop!" 

"  About  the  world,"  echoed  Elim,  "  and  everything  else 
forgotten." 

"  Please,"  she  repeated,  holding  up  a  prohibitory  palm. 

"  Rose  petals,"  he  said,  regarding  it. 

His  madness  increased.  She  withdrew  her  hand  and 
gazed  at  him  with  a  small  frown.  She  was  sitting  upright, 
propped  on  her  arms.  Her  mouth,  with  its  slightly  full 
under  lip,  was  elevated,  and  an  outrageous  desire  possessed 
him.  His  countenance  slowly  turned  hotly  red,  and  slowly 
a  faint  tide  of  color  stained  Rosemary  Roselle's  cheeks. 
She  looked  away;  Elim  looked  away.  He  proceeded 
aft  and  learned  that  Bramant's  Wharf  lay  only  a  few  miles 
ahead. 

The  old  man  cursed  the  wind  in  his  stringent  tones. 
Elim  hadn't  noticed  anything  reprehensible  in  the  wind. 
It  appeared  that  for  a  considerable  time  there  hadn't  been 
any.  A  capful  was  stirring  now,  and  humanity  —  ever 
discontented  —  silently  cursed  that. 

"  We're  nearly  there,"  he  said,  returning  to  Rosemary 
Roselle. 

He  was  unable  to  gather  any  intelligence  from  her  ex 
pression. 

[277] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

She  rose,  and  stood  with  a  hand  on  Indy's  shoulder, 
murmuring  affectionately  in  the  colored  woman's  ear. 
The  sloop  once  more  headed  at  a  long  angle  for  the  shore. 
Bramant's  Wharf  grew  visible,  projecting  solidly  from  a 
verdant  bank.  They  floated  silently  up  to  the  dock,  and 
the  youth  held  the  sloop  steady  while  Rosemary  Roselle 
and  Indy  mounted  from  its  deck.  Elim  followed,  but  sud 
denly  he  stopped,  and  his  hand  went  into  his  pocket.  A 
half  dollar  fell  ringing  into  the  boat.  Elim  indicated  the 
youth;  he  was  now  penniless. 


"  The  house,"  Rosemary  explained,  "  is  almost  a  mile 
in.  There  is  a  carriage  at  the  wharf  when  they  expect 
you.  And  usually  there  is  some  one  about." 

Elim,  carrying  the  cake  and  bottle,  followed  over  a 
grassy  road  between  tangles  of  blackberry  bushes.  On 
either  hand  neglected  fields  held  a  sparse  tangle  of  last 
year's  weeds;  beyond,  trees  closed  in  the  perspective.  The 
sun  had  passed  the  zenith,  and  the  shadows  of  walnut 
trees  fell  across  the  road.  Elim's  face  was  grim,  a  dark 
tide  rose  about  him,  enveloping  his  heart,  bothering  his 
vision.  He  wanted  to  address  something  final  to  the  slim 
girl  in  black  before  him,  something  now,  before  she  was 
forever  lost  in  the  gabble  of  her  relatives;  but  he  could 
think  of  nothing  appropriate,  expressive  of  the  tumult 
within  him.  His  misery  deepened  with  every  step,  grew 
into  a  bitterness  of  rebellion  that  almost  forced  an  inco 
herent  reckless  speech.  Rosemary  Roselle  didn't  turn,  she 

[278] 


ROSEMARY    ROSELLE 

didn't  linger,  there  were  a  great  many  things  that  she 
might  say.  The  colored  woman  was  positively  hurrying 
forward.  A  great  loneliness  swept  over  him.  He  had 
not,  he  thought  drearily,  been  made  for  joy. 

"  It's  queer  there's  no  one  about,"  Rosemary  Roselle 
observed.  They  reached  the  imposing  pillars  of  an  en 
trance —  the  wooden  gate  was  chained,  and  they  were 
obliged  to  turn  aside  and  search  for  an  opening  in  a  great 
mock-orange  hedge.  Before  them  a  wide  sweep  of  lawn 
led  up  to  a  formal  dark  fagade;  a  tanbark  path  was 
washed,  the  grass  ragged  and  uncut.  Involuntarily  they 
quickened  their  pace. 

Elim  saw  that  towering  brown  pillars  rose  to  the  roof  of 
the  dwelling  and  that  low  wings  extended  on  either  hand. 
Before  the  portico  a  stiffly  formal  garden  lay  in  withered 
neglect. 

The  flower  beds,  circled  with  masoned  rims  and  built  up 
like  wired  bouquets,  held  only  twisted  and  broken  stems. 

A  faint  odor  of  wet  plaster  and  dead  vegetation  rose  to 
meet  them.  On  the  towering  wall  of  the  house  every 
window  was  tightly  shuttered.  The  place  bore  a  silent 
and  melancholy  air  of  desertion. 

The  girl  gave  a  dismayed  gasp.  Elim  hastily  placed 
his  load  on  the  steps  and,  mounting,  beat  upon  the  door. 
Only  a  dull  echo  answered.  Dust  fell  from  the  paneling 
upon  his  head. 

"  Maybe  they  have  shut  up  the  front  for  protection,"  he 
suggested.  He  made  his  way  to  the  rear;  all  was  closed. 
Through  the  low  limbs  of  apple  trees  he  could  see  a  double 
file  of  small  sad  brick  quarters  for  the  slaves.  They,  too, 
were  empty.  The  place  was  without  a  living  being.  He 

[279] 


THE   HAPPY   END 

stood,  undecided,  when  suddenly  he  heard  Rosemary  Ro- 
selle  calling  with  an  acute  note  of  fear. 

He  ran  through  the  binding  grass  back  to  the  garden. 

"Elim  Meikeljohn!  "  She  stumbled  forward  to  meet 
him.  "Oh,  Elim,"  she  cried;  "there's  no  one  in  the 
world "  A  sob  choked  her  utterance. 

He  fell  on  his  knees  before  her : 

"  There's  always  me." 

She  sank  in  a  fragrant  heap  into  his  arms. 

Elim  Meikeljohn  laughed  over  her  shoulder  at  his  en 
tire  worldly  goods  on  the  steps  —  the  fragmentary  fruit 
cake  and  a  bottle  of  champagne. 

Here  they  are  lost  on  the  dimming  mirror  of  the  past. 


[280] 


THE  THRUSH  IN  THE  HEDGE 


HARRY  BAGGS  came  walking  slowly  over  the 
hills  in  the  blue  May  dusk.  He  could  now  see 
below  him  the  clustered  roofs  and  tall  slim 
stack  of  a  town.  His  instinct  was  to  avoid  it,  but  he  had 
tramped  all  day,  his  blurred  energies  were  hardly  capable 
of  a  detour,  and  he  decided  to  settle  near  by  for  the  night. 
About  him  the  country  rose  and  fell,  clothed  in  emerald 
wheat  and  pale  young  corn,  while  trees  filled  the  hollows 
with  the  shadowy  purple  of  their  darkening  boughs.  A 
robin  piped  a  belated  drowsy  note;  the  air  had  the  im 
palpable  sweetness  of  beginning  buds. 

A  vague  pleasant  melancholy  enveloped  him;  the  coun 
tryside  swam  indistinctly  in  his  vision  —  he  surrendered 
himself  to  inward  sensations,  drifting  memories,  unformu- 
lated  regrets.  He  was  twenty  and  had  a  short  powerful 
body;  a  broad  dusty  patient  face.  His  eyes  were  steady, 
light  blue,  and  his  jaw  heavy  but  shapely.  His  dress  — 
the  forlorn  trousers,  the  odd  coat  uncomfortably  drawn 
across  thick  shoulders,  and  incongruous  hat  —  held  pat 
ently  the  stamp  of  his  worldly  position :  he  was  a  tramp. 

He  stopped,  looking  about.  The  road,  white  and  hard, 
dipped  suddenly  down;  on  the  right,  windows  glimmered, 
withdrawn  behind  shrubbery  and  orderly  trees;  on  the 
left,  a  dark  plowed  field  rose  to  a  stiff  company  of  pines 
and  the  sky.  Harry  Baggs  stood  turned  in  the  latter  di 
rection,  for  he  caught  the  faint  odor  of  wood  smoke; 

[283] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

behind  the  field,  a  newly  acquired  instinct  told  him,  a 
fire  was  burning  in  the  open.  This,  now,  probably  meant 
that  other  wanderers  —  tramps  —  had  found  a  place  of 
temporary  rest. 

Without  hesitation  he  climbed  a  low  rail  fence,  found  a 
narrow  path  trod  in  the  soft  loam  and  followed  it  over  the 
brow  into  the  hollow  beyond.  His  surmise  was  correct 
—  a  fire  smoldered  in  a  red  blur  on  the  ground,  a  few 
relaxed  forms  gathered  about  the  wavering  smoke,  and  at 
their  back  were  grouped  four  or  five  small  huts. 

Harry  Baggs  walked  up  to  the  fire,  where,  with  a  con 
ventional  sentence,  he  extended  his  legs  to  the  low  blaze. 
A  man  regarded  him  with  a  peering  suspicious  gaze;  but 
any  doubts  were  apparently  laid,  for  the  other  silently 
resumed  a  somnolent  indifference.  His  clothes  were  an 
amazing  and  unnecessary  tangle  of  rags;  his  stubble  of 
beard  and  broken  black  hat  had  an  air  of  unreality,  as 
though  they  were  the  stage  properties  of  a  stupid  and 
conventional  parody  of  a  tramp. 

Another,  sitting  with  clasped  knees  beyond  the  fire,  in 
terrupted  a  monotonous  whining  recital  to  question  Harry 
Baggs.  "  Where'd  you  come  from?  " 

"  Somewhere  by  Lancaster." 

"  Ever  been  here  before?  "  And,  when  Baggs  had  said 
no:  "  Thought  I  hadn't  seen  you.  Most  of  us  here  come 
back  in  the  spring.  It's  a  comfortable  dump  when  it  don't 
rain  cold."  He  was  uncommonly  communicative.  "  The 
Nursery's  here  for  them  that  want  work;  and  if  not  no 
body's  to  ask  you  reasons." 

A  third,  in  a  grimy  light  overcoat,  with  a  short  bristling 
red  mustache  and  morose  countenance,  said  harshly : 

[284] 


THE   THRUSH    IN    THE   HEDGE 

"  Got  any  money?  " 

"  Maybe  two  bits." 

"  Let's  send  him  in  for  beer,"  the  other  proposed;  and  a 
new  animation  stirred  the  dilapidated  one  and  the  talker. 

"  You  can  go  to  hell !  "  Baggs  responded  without  heat. 

"  That  ain't  no  nice  way  to  talk,"  the  second  proclaimed. 
"  Peebles,  here,  meant  that  them  who  has  divides  with  all 
that  hasn't." 

Peebles  directed  a  hard  animosity  at  Harry  Baggs.  His 
gaze  flickered  over  the  latter's  heavy-set  body  and  unmoved 
face.  "  Want  your  jaw  slapped  crooked?  "  he  demanded 
with  a  degree  of  reservation. 

"  No,"  the  boy  placidly  replied. 

A  stillness  enveloped  them,  accentuated  by  the  minute 
crackling  of  the  disintegrating  wood.  The  dark  increased 
and  the  stars  came  out;  the  clip-clip  of  a  horse's  hoofs 
passed  in  the  distance  and  night.  Harry  Baggs  became 
flooded  with  sleep. 

"  I  s'pose  I  can  stay  in  one  of  these  brownstones  ?  "  he 
queried,  indicating  the  huts. 

No  one  answered  and  he  stumbled  toward  a  small  shel 
ter.  He  was  forced  to  bend,  edge  himself  into  the  close 
damp  interior,  where  he  collapsed  into  instant  unconscious 
ness  on  a  heap  of  bagging.  In  the  night  he  cried  out,  in 
a  young  strangely  distressed  voice;  and  later  a  drift  of 
rain  fell  on  the  roof  and  ran  in  thin  cold  streams  over  his 
still  body. 

II 

He  woke  late  the  following  morning  and  emerged  slug 
gishly  into  a  sparkling  rush  of  sunlight.  The  huts 

[285] 


THE   HAPPY    END 

looked  doubly  mean  in  the  pellucid  day.  They  were  built 
of  discarded  doors  and  variously  painted  fragments  of 
lumber,  with  blistered  and  unpinned  roofs  of  tin,  in  which 
rusted  smokepipes  had  been  crazily  wired ;  strips  of  moldy 
matting  hung  over  an  entrance  or  so,  but  the  others  gaped 
unprotected.  The  clay  before  them  was  worn  smooth 
and  hard;  a  replenished  fire  smoked  within  blackened 
bricks;  a  line,  stretched  from  a  dead  stump  to  a  loosely 
fixed  post,  supported  some  stained  and  meager  red  under- 
garb. 

Harry  Baggs  recognized  Peebles  and  the  loquacious 
tramp  at  the  edge  of  the  clearing.  The  latter,  clad  in  a 
grotesquely  large  and  sorry  suit  of  ministerial  black,  was 
emaciated  and  had  a  pinched  bluish  countenance.  When 
he  saw  Baggs  he  moved  forward  with  a  quick  uneven  step. 

"  Say,"  he  proceeded,  "  can  you  let  me  have  something 
to  get  a  soda-caffeine  at  a  drug  store  ?  This  ain't  a  stall ; 
I  got  a  fierce  headache.  Come  out  with  a  dime,  will  you ? 
My  bean  always  hurts,  but  to-day  I'm  near  crazy." 

Harry  Baggs  surveyed  him  for  a  moment,  and  then, 
without  comment,  produced  the  sum  in  question.  The 
other  turned  immediately  and  rapidly  disappeared  toward 
the  road. 

"  He's  crazy,  aU  right,  to  fill  himself  with  that  dope," 
Peebles  observed;  "it's  turning  him  black.  You  look 
pretty  healthy,"  he  added.  "  You  can  work,  and  they're 
taking  all  the  men  they  can  get  at  the  Nursery." 

The  boy  was  sharply  conscious  of  a  crawling  empti 
ness —  hunger.  He  had  only  fifteen  cents;  when  that 
was  gone  he  would  be  without  resources. 

[286] 


THE   THRUSH    IN    THE   HEDGE 

"  I  don't  mind,"  he  returned;  "  but  I've  got  to  eat  first." 

"  Can't  you  stick  till  night  ?  "  his  companion  urged. 
"  There's  only  half  a  day  left  now.  If  you  go  later  there'll 
be  nothing  doing  till  to-morrow." 

"  All  right,"  Harry  Baggs  assented. 

The  conviction  seized  him  that  this  dull  misery  of 
hunger  and  dirt  had  settled  upon  him  perpetually  —  there 
was  no  use  in  combating  it;  and,  with  an  animal-like  stoi 
cism,  he  followed  the  other  away  from  the  road,  out  of  the 
hollow,  to  where  row  upon  row  of  young  ornamental  trees 
reached  in  mathematical  perspective  to  broad  sheds,  glit 
tering  expanses  of  glass,  a  huddle  of  toolhouses,  and  office. 

His  conductor  halted  at  a  shed  entrance  and  indicated 
a  weather-bronzed  individual. 

"  Him,"  he  said.  "  And  mind  you  come  back  when 
you're  through;  we  all  dish  in  together  and  live  pretty 
good." 

Harry  Baggs  spent  the  long  brilliant  afternoon  burning 
bunches  of  condemned  peach  shoots.  The  smoke  rolled  up 
in  a  thick  ceaseless  cloud;  he  bore  countless  loads  and 
fed  them  to  the  flames.  The  hungry  crawling  increased, 
then  changed  to  a  leaden  nausea;  but,  accepting  it  as 
inevitable,  he  toiled  dully  on  until  the  end  of  day,  when 
he  was  given  a  dollar  and  promise  of  work  to-morrow, 

He  saw,  across  a  dingy  street,  a  small  grocery  store,  and 
purchased  there  coffee,  bacon  and  a  pound  of  dates.  Then 
he  returned  across  the  Nursery  to  the  hollow  and  huts. 
More  men  had  arrived  through  the  day,  other  fires  were 
burning,  and  an  acrid  odor  of  scorched  fat  and  boiling 
coffee  rose  in  the  delicate  evening.  A  small  group  was 

[287] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

passing  about  a  flasklike  bottle;  a  figure  lay  in  a  stupor 
on  the  clay ;  a  mutter  of  voices,  at  once  cautious  and  asser 
tive,  joined  argument  to  complaint. 

"  Over  this  way,"  Peebles  called  as  Harry  Baggs  ap 
proached.  The  former  inspected  the  purchased  articles, 
then  cursed.  "  Ain't  you  got  a  bottle  on  you?  " 

But  when  the  bacon  had  been  crisped  and  the  coffee 
turned  into  a  steaming  thick  liquid,  he  was  amply  appre 
ciative  of  the  sustenance  offered.  They  were  shortly 
joined  by  Runnel,  the  individual  with  the  bluish  poisoned 
countenance,  and  the  elaborately  ragged  tramp. 

"  Did  you  frighten  any  cooks  out  of  their  witses  ?  " 
Peebles  asked  the  last  contemptuously.  The  other  retorted 
unintelligibly  in  his  appropriately  hoarse  voice.  "  Dake 
knocks  on  back  doors,"  Peebles  explained  to  Harry  Baggs, 
"  and  then  fixes  to  scare  a  nickel  or  grub  from  the  women 
who  open." 

Quiet  settled  over  the  camp ;  the  blue  smoke  of  pipes  and 
cigarettes  merged  imperceptibly  into  the  dusk  of  evening. 
Harry  Baggs  was  enveloped  by  a  momentary  contentment, 
born  of  the  satisfaction  of  food,  relaxation  after  toil;  and, 
leaning  his  head  back  on  clasped  hands,  he  sang: 

"  /  changed  my  name  when  I  got  free 

To  Mister,  like  the  res'. 
But  now  .  .  .  OV  Master's  voice  I  hears 

Across  de  river:  '  Rome, 
You  damn  oV  nigger,  come  and  bring 
Dat  boat  an'  row  me  home!  '  " 

His  voice  rolled  out  without  effort,  continuous  as  a  flow- 
[288] 


THE    THRUSH    IN    THE   HEDGE 

ing  stream,  grave  and  round  as  the  deep  tone  of  a  temple 
bell.  It  increased  in  volume  until  the  hollow  vibrated; 
the  sound,  rather  than  coming  from  a  single  throat,  seemed 
to  dwell  in  the  air,  to  be  the  harmony  of  evening  made 
audible.  The  simple  melody  rose  and  fell;  the  simple 
words  became  portentous,  burdened  with  the  tragedy  of 
vain  longing,  lost  felicity.  The  dead  past  rose  again  like 
a  colored  mist  over  the  sordid  reality  of  the  present;  it 
drifted  desirable  and  near  across  the  hill;  it  soothed  and 
mocked  the  heart  —  and  dissolved. 

The  silence  that  followed  the  song  was  sharply  broken 
by  a  thin  querulous  question;  a  tenuous  bent  figure  stum 
bled  across  the  open. 

"  Who's  singing  ?  "  he  demanded. 

"That's  French  Janin,"  Peebles  told  Harry  Baggs; 
"  he's  blind." 

"  I  am,"  the  latter  responded  — "  Harry  Baggs." 

The  man  came  closer,  and  Baggs  saw  that  he  was  old 
and  incredibly  worn;  his  skin  clung  in  dry  yellow  patches 
to  his  skull,  the  temples  were  bony  caverns,  and  the  pits 
of  his  eyes  blank  shadows.  He  felt  forward  with  a  sic- 
cated  hand,  on  which  veins  were  twisted  like  blue  worsted 
over  fleshless  tendons,  gripped  Harry  Baggs'  shoulder,  and 
lowered  himself  to  the  ground. 

"Another  song,"  he  insisted;  "like  the  last.  Don't 
try  any  cheap  show." 

The  boy  responded  immediately ;  his  serious  voice  rolled 
out  again  in  a  spontaneous  tide. 

"'Hard  times,'"  Harry  Baggs  sang;  "  *  hard  times, 
come  again  no  more.' ' 

The  old  man  said: 

[289] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

"  You  think  you  have  a  great  voice,  eh  ?  All  you  have 
to  do  to  take  the  great  roles  is  open  your  mouth !  " 

"  I  hadn't  thought  of  any  of  that,"  Baggs  responded. 
"  I  sing  because  —  well,  it's  just  natural;  no  one  has  said 
much  about  it." 

"  You  have  had  no  teaching,  that's  plain.  Your  power 
leaks  like  an  old  rain  barrel.  What  are  you  doing  here?  " 

"  Tramping." 

Harry  Baggs  looked  about,  suddenly  aware  of  the 
dark  pit  of  being  into  which  he  had  fallen.  The  fires  died 
sullenly,  deserted  except  for  an  occasional  recumbent  fig 
ure.  Peebles  had  disappeared;  Dake  lay  in  his  rags  on 
the  ground;  Runnel  rocked  slowly,  like  a  pendulum,  in 
his  ceaseless  pain. 

"Tramping  to  the  devil!  "  he  added. 

"What  started  you?  "  French  Janin  asked. 

"  Jail,"  Harry  Baggs  answered. 

"  Of  course  you  didn't  take  it,"  the  blind  man  com 
mented  satirically;  "  or  else  you  went  in  to  cover  some  one 
else." 

"  I  took  it,  all  right  —  eighteen  dollars."  He  was  silent 
for  "a  moment;  then:  "There  was  something  I  had  to 
have  and  I  didn't  see  any  other  way  of  getting  it.  I  had 
to  have  it.  My  stepfather  had  money  that  he  put  away  — 
didn't  need.  I  wanted  an  accordion;  I  dreamed  about  it 
till  I  got  ratty,  lifted  the  money,  and  he  put  me  in  jail 
for  a  year. 

"  I  had  the  accordion  hid.  I  didn't  tell  them  where, 
and  when  I  got  out  I  went  right  to  it.  I  played  some 
sounds,  and  —  after  all  I'd  done  —  they  weren't  any  good. 
I  broke  it  up  —  and  left." 

[290] 


THE   THRUSH    IN    THE   HEDGE 

"You  were  right,"  Janin  told  him;  "the  accordion  is 
an  impossible  instrument,  a  thing  entirely  vulgar.  I 
know,  for  I  am  a  musician,  and  played  the  violin  at  the 
Opera  Comique.  You  think  I  am  lying;  but  you  are 
young  and  life  is  strange.  I  can  tell  you  this:  I,  Janin, 
once  led  the  finale  of  Hamlet.  I  saw  that  the  director  was 
pale;  I  leaned  forward  and  he  gave  me  the  baton.  I 
knew  music.  There  were  five  staves  to  conduct  —  at  the 
Opera  Comique." 

He  turned  his  sightless  face  toward  Harry  Baggs. 

"That  means  little  to  you,"  he  spoke  sharply;  "you 
know  nothing.  You  have  never  seen  a  gala  audience  on 
its  feet;  the  roses " 

He  broke  off.  His  wasted  palms  rested  on  knees  that 
resembled  bones  draped  with  maculate  clothing;  his  sere 
head  fell  forward.  Runnel  paced  away  from  the  embers 
and  returned.  Harry  Baggs  looked,  with  doubt  and  won 
derment,  at  the  ruined  old  man. 

The  mere  word  musician  called  up  in  him  an  inchoate 
longing,  a  desire  for  something  far  and  undefined.  He 
thought  of  great  audiences,  roses,  the  accompaniment  of 
violins.  Subconsciously  he  began  to  sing  in  a  whisper 
that  yet  reached  beyond  the  huts.  He  forgot  his  sur 
roundings,  the  past  without  light,  the  future  seemingly 
shorn  of  all  prospect. 

French  Janin  moved;  he  fumbled  in  precarious  pockets 
and  at  last  produced  a  small  bottle;  he  removed  the  cork 
and  tapped  out  on  his  palm  a  measure  of  white  crystalline 
powder,  which  he  gulped  down.  Then  he  struggled  to  his 
feet  and  wavered  away  through  the  night  toward  a  shelter. 

Harry  Baggs  imagined  himself  singing  heroic  measures; 
[291] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

he  finished,  there  was  a  tense  pause,  and  then  a  thunderous 
acclamation.  His  spirit  mounted  up  and  up  in  a  transport 
of  emotional  splendor;  broken  visions  thronged  his  mind 
of  sacrifice,  renouncement,  death.  The  fire  expired  and 
the  night  grew  cold.  His  ecstasy  sank;  he  became  once 
more  aware  of  the  human  wreckage  about  him,  the  detritus 
of  which  he  was  now  a  part. 


Ill 

He  spent  the  next  day  moving  crated  plants  to  delivery 
trucks,  where  his  broad  shoulders  were  most  serviceable, 
and  in  the  evening  returned  to  the  camp,  streaked  with 
fine  rich  loam.  French  Janin  was  waiting  for  him  and 
consumed  part  of  Harry  Baggs'  unskilfully  cooked  sup 
per.  The  old  man  was  silent,  though  he  seemed  contin 
ually  at  the  point  of  bursting  into  eager  speech.  However, 
he  remained  uncommunicative  and  followed  the  boy's 
movements  with  a  blank  speculative  countenance.  Fi 
nally  he  said  abruptly: 

"  Sing  that  song  over  —  about  the  '  damn  ol'  nigger.'  " 

Harry  Baggs  responded;  and,  at  the  end,  Janin  nodded. 

"  What  I  should  have  expected,"  he  pronounced. 
"  When  I  first  heard  you  I  thought:  '  Here,  perhaps,  is  a 
great  voice,  a  voice  for  l^ris ;  '  but  I  was  mistaken.  You 
have  some  bigness  —  yes,  good  enough  for  street  ballads, 
sentimental  popularities;  that  is  all." 

An  overwhelming  depression  settled  upon  Harry  Baggs, 
a  sense  of  irremediable  loss.  He  had  considered  his  voice 
a  lever  that  might  one  day  raise  him  out  of  his  misfor- 

[292] 


THE   THRUSH    IN    THE   HEDGE 

tunes;  he  instinctively  valued  it  to  an  extraordinary  de 
gree;  it  had  resembled  a  precious  bud,  the  possible  opening 
of  which  would  flood  his  being  with  its  fragrant  flowering. 
He  gazed  with  a  new  dread  at  the  temporary  shelters  and 
men  about  him,  the  huts  and  men  that  resembled  each  other 
so  closely  in  their  patched  decay. 

Until  now,  except  in  brief  moments  of  depression,  he 
had  thought  of  himself  as  only  a  temporary  part  of  this 
broken  existence.  But  it  was  probable  that  he,  too,  was 
done  —  like  Runnel,  and  Dake,  who  lived  on  the  fear  of 
women.  He  recalled  with  an  oath  his  reception  in  the 
village  of  his  birth  on  his  return  from  jail:  the  veiled  or 
open  distrust  of  the  adults;  the  sneering  of  the  young;  his 
barren  search  for  employment.  He  had  suffered  inordi 
nately  in  his  narrow  cell  —  fully  paid,  it  had  seemed,  the 
price  of  his  fault.  But  apparently  he  was  wrong;  the 
thing  was  to  follow  him  through  life  —  and  he  would  live 
a  long  while  —  condemning  him,  an  outcast,  to  the  com 
pany  of  his  fellows. 

His  shoulders  drooped,  his  face  took  on  the  relaxed 
sullenness  of  those  about  him;  curiously,  in  an  instant  he 
seemed  more  bedraggled,  more  disreputable,  hopeless. 

French  Janin  continued: 

"  Your  voice  is  good  enough  for  the  people  who  know 
nothing.  Perhaps  it  will  bring  you  money,  singing  at 
fairs  in  the  street.  I  have  a  violin,  a  cheap  thing  without 
soul;  but  I  can  get  a  thin  jingle  out  of  it.  Suppose  we 
go  out  together,  try  our  chance  where  there  is  a  little 
crowd;  it  will  be  better  than  piggin'  in  the  earth." 

It  would,  Baggs  thought,  be  easier  than  carrying  heavy 
crates;  subtly  the  idea  of  lessened  labor  appealed  to  him. 

[293] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

He  signified  his  assent  and  rolled  over  on  his  side,  staring 
into  nothingness. 

French  Janin  went  into  the  town  the  following  day  — 
he  walked  with  a  surprising  facility  and  speed  —  to  dis 
cover  where  they  might  find  a  gathering  for  their  purpose. 
Harry  Baggs  loafed  about  the  camp  until  the  other  re 
turned  with  the  failing  of  light. 

"  The  sales  about  the  country  are  all  that  get  the  people 
together  now,"  he  reported;  "  the  parks  are  empty  till  July. 
There's  to  be  one  to-morrow  about  eight  miles  away ;  we'll 
try  it." 

He  went  to  the  shelter,  where  he  secured  a  scarred  vio 
lin,  with  roughly  shaped  pegs  and  lacking  a  string.  He 
motioned  Harry  Baggs  to  follow  him  and  proceeded  to 
the  brow  of  the  field,  where  he  settled  down  against  a 
fence,  picking  disconsolately  at  the  burring  strings  and 
attempting  to  tighten  an  ancient  bow.  Baggs  dropped  be 
side  him.  Below  them  night  flooded  the  winding  road 
and  deepened  under  the  hedges;  a  window  showed  palely 
alight;  the  stillness  was  intense. 

"  Now !  "  French  Janin  said. 

The  violin  went  home  beneath  his  chin  and  he  impro 
vised  a  thin  but  adequate  opening  for  Harry  Baggs'  song. 
The  boy,  for  the  first  time  in  his  existence,  sang  indiffer 
ently;  his  voice,  merely  big,  lacked  resonance;  the  song 
was  robbed  of  all  power  to  move  or  suggest. 

Janin  muttered  unintelligibly;  he  was,  Harry  Baggs 
surmised,  speaking  his  native  language,  obscurely  com 
plaining,  accusing.  They  tried  a  second  song :  "  Hard 
times,  hard  times,  come  again  no  more."  There  was  not 
an  accent  of  longing  nor  regret. 
[294] 


THE   THRUSH    IN    THE   HEDGE 

"That'll  do,"  French  Janin  told  him;  "good  enough 
for  cows  and  chickens." 

He  rose  and  descended  to  the  camp,  a  bowed  unsub 
stantial  figure  in  the  gloom. 


IV 

They  started  early  to  the  sale.  Janin,  as  always, 
walked  swiftly,  his  violin  wrapped  in  a  cloth  beneath  his 
arm.  Harry  Baggs  lounged  sullenly  at  his  side.  The 
day  was  filled  with  a  warm  silvery  mist,  through  which 
the  sun  mounted  rayless,  crisp  and  round.  Along  the 
road  plum  trees  were  in  vivid  pink  bloom;  the  apple  buds 
were  opening,  distilling  palpable  clouds  of  fragrance. 

Baggs  met  the  morning  with  a  sullen  lowered  counte 
nance,  his  gaze  on  the  monotonous  road.  He  made  no 
reply  to  the  blind  man's  infrequent  remarks,  and  the  lat 
ter,  except  for  an  occasional  murmur,  fell  silent.  At  last 
Harry  Baggs  saw  a  group  of  men  about  the  fence  that 
divided  a  small  lawn  and  neatly  painted  frame  house  from 
the  public  road.  A  porch  was  filled  with  a  confusion  of 
furniture,  china  was  stacked  on  the  grass,  and  a  bed  dis 
played  at  the  side. 

The  sale  had  not  yet  begun.  A  youth,  with  a  pencil 
and  paper,  was  moving  distractedly  about,  noting  items; 
a  prosperous-appearing  individual,  with  a  derby  resting 
on  the  back  of  his  neck,  was  arranging  an  open  space 
about  a  small  table.  Beyond,  a  number  of  horses  attached 
to  dusty  vehicles  were  hitched  to  the  fence  where  they  were 
constantly  augmented  by  fresh  arrivals. 

"  Here  we  are!  "  Baggs  informed  his  companion. 
[295] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

He  directed  Janin  forward,  where  the  latter  unwrapped 
his  violin.  A  visible  curiosity  held  the  prospective  buy 
ers;  they  turned  and  faced  the  two  dilapidated  men  on  the 
road.  A  joke  ran  from  laughing  mouth  to  mouth.  Janin 
drew  his  bow  across  the  frayed  strings;  Harry  Baggs 
cleared  the  mist  from  his  throat.  As  he  sang,  aware  of 
an  audience,  a  degree  of  feeling  returned  to  his  tones; 
the  song  swept  with  a  throb  to  its  climax : 

'  You  damn  oV  nigger,  come  and  bring 
Dat  boat  an'  row  me  home! ' 

There  was  scattered  applause. 

"  Take  your  hat  round,"  Janin  whispered;  and  the  boy 
opened  the  gate  and  moved,  with  his  battered  hat  extended, 
from  man  to  man. 

Few  gave ;  a  careless  quarter  was  added  to  a  small  num 
ber  of  pennies  and  nickels.  Janin  counted  the  sum  with 
an  unfamiliar  oath. 

"  That  other,"  he  directed,  and  drew  a  second  prelimi 
nary  bar  from  his  uncertain  instrument. 

"  Here,  you !  "  a  strident  voice  called.  "  Shut  your 
noise;  the  sale's  going  to  commence." 

French  Janin  lowered  the  violin. 

"  We  must  wait,"  he  observed  philosophically.  "  These 
things  go  on  and  on;  people  come  and  go." 

He  found  a  bank,  where  he  sat,  after  stumbling  through 
a  gutter  of  stagnant  water.  Harry  Baggs  followed  and 
filled  a  cheap  ornate  pipe.  The  voice  of  the  auctioneer 
rose,  tiresome  and  persistent,  punctuated  by  bids,  haggling 
over  minute  sums  for  the  absurd  flotsam  of  a  small  house- 

[296] 


THE    THRUSH    IN    THE   HEDGE 

keeping  square  of  worn  oilcloth,  a  miscellany  of  empty 
jars.  A  surprisingly  passionate  argument  arose  between 
bidders;  personalities  and  threats  emerged.  Janin  said: 

"  Listen  I  That  is  the  world  into  which  musicians  are 
born ;  it  is  against  such  uproar  we  must  oppose  our  delicate 
chords  —  on  such  hearts."  His  speech  rambled  into 
French  and  a  melancholy  silence. 

"  It's  stopped  for  a  little,"  Baggs  reminded  him. 

Janin  rose  stiffly  and  the  other  guided  him  to  their 
former  place.  The  voice  and  violin  rose,  dominated  a 
brief  period,  and  the  boy  went  among  the  throng,  seeking 
newcomers.  The  mist  thickened,  drops  of  water  shone 
on  his  ragged  sleeves,  and  then  a  fine  rain  descended. 
The  crowd  filled  the  porch  and  lower  floor,  bulged  appar 
ently  from  door  and  windows.  Harry  Baggs  made  a  mo 
tion  to  follow  with  his  companion,  but  no  one  moved; 
there  was  no  visible  footing  under  cover.  They  stayed 
out  stolidly  in  the  wet,  by  an  inadequate  tree;  and  when 
ever  chance  offered  Harry  Baggs  repeated  his  limited  songs. 
A  string  of  the  violin  broke;  the  others  grew  soggy,  limp; 
the  pegs  would  tighten  no  more  and  Janin  was  forced  to 
give  up  his  accompanying. 

The  activities  shifted  to  a  shed  and  barn,  where  a  horse 
and  three  sorry  cows  and  farming  implements  were  sold. 
Janin  and  Harry  Baggs  followed,  but  there  was  no  oppor 
tunity  for  further  melody ;  larger  sums  were  here  involved ; 
the  concentration  of  the  buyers  grew  painful.  The  boy's 
throat  burned;  it  was  strained,  and  his  voice  grew  hoarse. 
Finally  he  declared  shortly  that  he  was  going  back  to  the 
shelter  by  the  Nursery. 

As  they  tramped  over  the  rutted  and  muddy  road, 
[297] 


THE   HAPPY    END 

through  a  steadily  increasing  downpour,  Harry  Baggs 
counted  the  sum  they  had  collected.  It  was  two  dollars 
and  some  odd  pennies.  Jan  in  was  closely  attentive  as 
the  money  passed  through  the  other's  fingers.  He  took  it 
from  Baggs'  hand,  re-counted  it  with  an  unfailing  touch, 
and  gave  back  a  half. 

The  return,  even  to  the  younger's  tireless  being,  seemed 
interminable.  Harry  Baggs  tramped  doggedly,  making  no 
effort  to  avoid  the  deepening  pools.  French  Janin  strug 
gled  at  his  heels,  shifting  the  violin  from  place  to  place  and 
muttering  incoherently. 

It  was  dark  when  they  arrived  at  the  huts ;  the  fires  were 
sodden  mats  of  black  ash;  no  one  was  visible.  They 
stumbled  from  shelter  to  shelter,  but  found  them  full. 
One  at  last  was  discovered  unoccupied;  but  they  had  no 
sooner  entered  than  the  reason  was  sharply  borne  upon 
them  —  the  roof  leaked  to  such  an  extent  that  the  floor  was 
an  uneasy  sheet  of  mud.  However,  there  was  literally  no 
where  else  for  them  to  go.  Janin  found  a  broken  chair 
on  which  he  balanced  his  bowed  and  shrunken  form; 
Harry  Baggs  sat  against  the  wall. 

He  dozed  uneasily,  and,  wakened  by  the  old  man's 
babbling,  cursed  him  bitterly.  At  last  he  fell  asleep;  but, 
brought  suddenly  back  to  consciousness  by  a  hand  gripping 
his  shoulder,  he  started  up  in  a  blaze  of  wrath. 

He  shook  off  the  hand  and  heard  French  Janin  slip  and 
fall  against  an  insecure  wall.  The  interior  was  abso 
lutely  black;  Harry  Baggs  could  see  no  more  than  his 
blind  companion.  The  latter  fumbled,  at  last  regained  a 
footing,  and  his  voice  fluctuated  out  of  an  apparent  noth 
ingness. 

[298] 


THE   THRUSH    IN    THE   HEDGE 

"  There  is  something  important  for  you  to  know,"  Janin 
proceeded. 

"  I  lied  to  you  about  your  voice  —  I,  once  a  musician 
of  the  orchestra  at  the  Opera  Comique.  I  meant  to  be 
cunning  and  take  you  round  to  the  fairs,  where  we  would 
make  money;  have  you  sing  truck  for  people  who  know 
nothing.  I  let  you  sing  to-day,  in  the  rain,  for  a  dollar  — 
while  I,  Janin,  fiddled. 

"  I  am  a  voyou;  there  is  nothing  in  English  low  enough. 
The  thought  of  it  has  been  eating  at  me  like  a  rat."  The 
disembodied  words  stopped,  the  old  man  strangled  and 
coughed;  then  continued  gasping:  "Attention!  You 
have  a  supreme  barytone,  a  miracle !  I  heard  all  the  great 
voices  for  twenty  years,  and  know. 

"  At  times  there  is  a  voice  with  perfect  pitch,  a  true 
art  and  range ;  not  many  —  they  are  cold.  At  times  there 
is  a  singer  with  great  heart,  sympathy  .  .  .  mostly  too 
sweet. 

"  But  once,  maybe,  in  fifty,  sixty  years,  both  are  to 
gether.  You  are  that  —  I  make  you  amends." 

The  rain  pounded  fantastically  on  the  roof  a  few  inches 
above  Harry  Baggs'  head  and  the  water  seeped  coldly 
through  his  battered  shoes;  but,  in  the  violent  rebirth  of 
the  vague  glow  he  had  lost  a  short  while  before,  he  gave 
no  heed  to  his  bodily  discomfort.  "  A  supreme  bary 
tone!  "  The  walls  of  the  hut,  the  hollow,  dissolved  before 
the  sudden  light  of  hope  that  enveloped  him ;  all  the  dim 
dreams,  the  unformulated  aspirations  on  which  subcon 
sciously  his  spirit  had  subsisted,  returned. 

"  Can  you  be  sure?  "  he  demanded  uncertainly. 

"  Absolutely !  You  are  an  artist,  and  life  has  wrung 
[299] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

you  out  like  a  cloth  —  jail,  hungry,  outcast;  yes,  and 
nights  with  stars,  and  water  shining;  men  like  old  Janin, 
dead  men,  begging  on  the  roads  —  they  are  all  in  your 

voice,  jumbled  —  serious  barytone "  The  high  thin 

recital  stopped,  from  exhaustion. 

Harry  Baggs  was  warm  to  the  ends  of  his  fingers.  He 
wiped  his  wet  brow  with  a  wetter  hand. 

"  That's  fine,"  he  said  impotently;  "  fine!  " 

He  could  hear  French  Janin  breathing  stertorously ; 
and,  suddenly  aware  of  the  other's  age,  the  misery  of  their 
situation,  he  asked: 

"Don't  you  feel  good?" 

"  I've  been  worse  and  better,"  he  replied.  "  This  is 
bad  for  your  throat,  after  singing  all  day  in  the  rain. 
Voyou!  "  he  repeated  of  himself. 

Silence  enveloped  them,  broken  by  the  creaking  of  the 
blind  man's  chair  and  the  decreasing  patter  of  the  rain. 
Soon  it  stopped  and  Harry  Baggs  went  outside;  stars 
glimmered  at  the  edges  of  shifting  clouds,  a  sweet  odor 
rose  from  the  earth,  a  trailing  scent  of  blossoming  trees 
expanded. 

He  sang  in  a  vibrant  undertone  a  stave  without  words. 
An  uneasy  form  joined  him ;  it  was  Runnel. 

"  I  b'lieve  my  head'll  burst!  "  he  complained. 

"  Leave  that  soda-caffeine  be." 

He  would  never  forget  Runnel  with  his  everlasting  pain; 
or  Dake,  who  lived  by  scaring  women.  .  .  .  Great  audi 
ences  and  roses,  and  the  roar  of  applause.  He  heard  it 
now. 


[300] 


THE    THRUSH    IN    THE   HEDGE 


Harry  Baggs  returned  to  the  Nursery,  where,  with  his 
visions,  his  sense  of  justification,  he  was  happy  among  the 
fields  of  plants.  There  he  was  given  work  of  a  more  per 
manent  kind;  he  was  put  under  a  watchful  eye  in  a  group 
transplanting  berry  bushes,  definitely  reassigned  to  that 
labor  to-morrow.  He  returned  to  the  camp  with  a  roll  of 
tar  paper  and,  after  supper,  covered  the  leaking  roof  of 
the  shelter.  French  Janin  sat  with  his  blank  face  fol 
lowing  the  other's  movements.  Janin's  countenance  re 
sembled  a  walnut,  brown  and  worn  in  innumerable  fur 
rows;  his  neck  was  like  a  dry  inadequate  stem.  As  he 
glanced  at  him  the  old  man  produced  a  familiar  bottle 
and  shook  out  what  little  powder,  like  finely  ground 
glass,  it  contained.  He  greedily  absorbed  what  there  was 
and,  petulantly  exploring  the  empty  container,  flung  it 
into  the  bushes.  A  nodding  drowsiness  overtook  him,  his 
head  rolled  forward,  he  sank  slowly  into  a  bowed  amor 
phous  heap.  Harry  Baggs  roused  him  with  difficulty. 

"  You  don't  want  to  sit  like  this,"  he  said;  "  come  up 
by  the  field,  where  it's  fresher." 

He  lifted  Janin  to  his  feet,  half  carried  him  to  the  place 
under  the  fence.  Harry  Baggs  was  consumed  by  a  desire 
to  talk  about  the  future  —  the  future  of  his  voice;  he 
wanted  to  hear  of  the  triumphs  of  other  voices,  of  the  great 
stages  that  they  finally  dominated.  He  wanted  to  know 
the  most  direct  path  there ;  he  was  willing  that  it  should  not 
be  easy.  "  I'm  as  strong  as  an  ox,"  he  thought. 

But  he  was  unable  to  move  French  Janin  from  his 
stupor;  in  reply  to  his  questions  the  blind  man  only  mut- 

[301] 


THE   HAPPY    END 

tered,  begged  to  be  let  alone.  Life  was  at  such  a  low  ebb 
in  him  that  his  breathing  was  imperceptible.  Harry 
Baggs  was  afraid  that  he  would  die  without  a  sound  — 
leave  him.  He  gave  up  his  questioning  and  sang.  He 
was  swept  to'  his  feet  by  a  great  wave  of  feeling ;  with  his 
head  back,  he  sent  the  resonant  volume  of  his  tones  to 
ward  the  stars.  Baggs  stopped  suddenly;  stillness  once 
more  flooded  the  plowed  hill  and  he  raised  imploring 
arms  to  the  sky  in  a  gust  of  longing. 

"  I  want  to  sing!  "  he  cried.     "  That's  all  — to  sing." 

Janin  was  brighter  in  the  morning. 

"  You  must  have  some  exercises,"  he  told  the  boy.  "  I'll 
get  new  strings  for  the  violin;  it'll  do  to  give  you  the 
pitch." 

At  the  day's  end  they  went  again  to  the  hilltop.  French 
Janin  tightened  and  tuned  his  instrument. 

"Now!"  he  measured,  with  poised  bow.  "Ah!" 
Both  his  voice  and  violin  were  tremulous,  shrill;  but  they 
indicated  the  pitch  of  the  desired  note.  "  Ah!  "  the  old 
man  quavered,  higher. 

"  Ah !  "  Harry  Baggs  boomed  in  his  tremendous  round 
tone. 

They  repeated  the  exercises  until  a  slip  of  a  new  moon, 
like  a  wistful  girl,  sank  and  darkness  hid  the  countryside. 
A  palpitating  chorus  of  frogs  rose  from  the  invisible 
streams.  Somnolence  again  overtook  Janin;  the  violin 
slipped  into  the  fragrant  grass  by  the  fence,  but  his  fingers 
still  clutched  the  bow. 

Pity  for  the  other  stirred  Baggs'  heart.  He  wondered 
what  had  ruined  him,  brought  him  —  a  man  who  had 

[302] 


THE   THRUSH    IN    THE   HEDGE 

played  in  an  opera  house  —  here.  A  bony  elbow  showed 
bare  through  a  torn  sleeve  —  the  blind  man  had  no  shirt ; 
the  soles  of  his  shoes  gaped,  smelling  evilly.  Yet  once  he 
had  played  in  an  orchestra;  he  was  undoubtedly  a  musi 
cian.  Life  suddenly  appeared  grim,  a  sleepless  menace 
awaiting  the  first  opportune  weakness  by  which  to  enter 
and  destroy. 

It  occurred  to  Harry  Baggs  for  the  first  time  that  against 
such  a  hidden  unsuspected  blight  his  sheer  strength  would 
avail  him  little.  He  had  stolen  money;  that  in  itself  held 
danger  to  his  future,  his  voice.  He  had  paid  for  it;  that 
score  was  clear,  but  he  must  guard  against  such  stupidi 
ties  in  the  years  to  come.  He  had  now  a  conscious  single 
purpose  —  to  sing.  A  new  sense  of  security  took  the 
place  of  his  doubts.  He  stirred  Janin  from  his  collapsed 
sleep,  directed  him  toward  their  hut. 

He  returned  eagerly  in  the  evening  to  the  vocal  exer 
cises.  French  Janin  struggled  to  perform  his  part,  but 
mostly  Harry  Baggs  boomed  out  his  Ahs!  undirected. 
The  other  had  been  without  his  white  powder  for  three 
days;  his  shredlike  muscles  twitched  continually  and  at 
times  he  was  unable  to  hold  the  violin.  Finally : 

"  Can  you  go  in  to  the  post-office  and  ask  for  a  package 
for  me  at  general  delivery  ?  "  he  asked  Harry  Baggs. 
"  I'm  expecting  medicine." 

"  That  medicine  of  yours  is  bad  as  Runnel's  dope.  I've 
a  mind  to  let  it  stay." 

The  other  rose,  stood  swaying  with  pinching  fingers, 
tremulous  lips. 

"  I'm  afraid  I  can't  make  it,"  he  whimpered. 
[303] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

"  Sit  down,"  Harry  Baggs  told  him  abruptly;  "  I'll  go. 
Too  late  now  to  try  pulling  you  up.  Whatever  it  is,  it's 
got  you." 

It  was  warm,  almost  hot.  He  walked  slowly  down  the 
road  toward  the  town.  On  the  left  was  a  smooth  lawn, 
with  great  stately  trees,  a  long  gray  stone  house  beyond. 
A  privet  hedge,  broken  by  a  drive,  closed  in  the  withdrawn 
orderly  habitation.  A  young  moon  bathed  the  scene  in  a 
diffused  silver  light;  low  cultivated  voices  sounded  from  a 
porch. 

Harry  Baggs  stopped;  he  had  never  before  seen  such  a 
concretely  desirable  place;  it  filled  him  with  a  longing, 
sharp  like  pain.  Beyond  the  hedge  lay  a  different  world 
from  this;  he  could  not  even  guess  its  wide  possession  of 
ease,  of  knowledge,  of  facility  for  song.  A  voice  laughed, 
gay  and  untroubled  as  a  bird's  note.  He  wanted  to  stay, 
seated  obscurely  on  the  bank,  saturate  himself  with  the 
still  beauty;  but  the  thought  of  French  Janin  waiting  for 
the  relief  of  his  drug  drove  him  on. 

The  maple  trees  that  lined  the  quiet  streets  of  the  town 
were  in  full  early  leaf.  Groups  paced  tranquilly  over  the 
brick  ways;  the  houses  stood  in  secure  rows.  A  longing 
for  safety,  recognition,  choked  at  Harry  Baggs'  throat. 
He  wanted  to  stop  at  the  corner,  talk,  move  home  to  a 
shadowy  cool  porch.  He  hurried  in  his  ragged  clothes 
past  the  pools  of  light  at  the  street  crossings  into  the 
kinder  gloom.  At  that  moment  he  would  have  surren 
dered  his  voice  for  a  place  in  the  communal  peace  about 
him. 

He  reached  the  post-office  and  asked  for  a  package  ad- 
[304] 


THE    THRUSH    IN    THE   HEDGE 

dressed  to  Janin.  The  clerk  delayed,  regarded  him  with 
suspicion,  but  in  the  end  surrendered  a  small  precisely 
wrapped  box.  As  he  returned  his  mood  changed;  all  he 
asked,  he  muttered  bitterly,  was  a  fair  trial  for  his  voice. 
He  recognized  obscurely  that  a  singer's  existence  must  be 
different  from  the  constricted  life  of  a  country  town;  here 
were  no  stage,  no  audience,  for  the  great  harmonies  he 
had  imagined  himself  producing.  He  had  that  in  his 
heart  which  would  make  mere  security,  content,  forever  im 
possible. 

In  the  dilapidated  camp  French  Janin  eagerly  clutched 
the  box.  He  almost  filled  his  palm  with  the  crystalline 
powder  and  gulped  it  hastily.  Its  effect  was  produced 
slowly.  .  .  .  Janin  waited  rigidly  for  the  release  of  the 
drug. 

The  evening  following,  under  the  fence  on  the  hill,  the 
blind  man  dozed  while  Harry  Baggs  exercised  his  voice. 

"  Good !  "  the  former  pronounced  unexpectedly.  "  I 
know ;  heard  all  the  great  voices  for  twenty  years ;  a  violin 
in  the  Opera  Comique.  Once  I  led  the  finale  of  Hamlet. 
I  saw  the  Director  stop.  ...  He  handed  me  the  baton. 
He  died  soon  after,  and  that  was  the  beginning  of  my 
bad  luck.  I  should  have  been  Director ;  but  I  was  ignored, 
and  came  to  America  —  Buenos  Aires;  then  Washington, 
and  —  and  morphia." 

There  was  a  long  silence  and  then  he  spoke  again  with 
a  new  energy: 

"  I'm  done,  but  you  haven't  started.  You're  bigger 
than  ever  I  was;  you'll  go  on  and  on.  I,  Janin,  will  train 
you;  when  you  sing  the  great  roles  I'll  sit  in  a  box,  wear 

[305] 


THE   HAPPY    END 

diamond  studs.  Afterward,  as  we  roll  in  a  carriage  down 
the  Grandes  Boulevards,  the  people  in  front  of  the  cafes 
will  applaud;  the  voice  is  appreciated  in  Paris." 

"  I  have  a  lot  to  learn  first,"  Baggs  put  in  practically. 

The  old  man  recovered  his  violin.  "  Ah !  "  He  drew 
the  note  tenuous  but  correct  from  the  uncertain  strings. 
"  Ah!  "  Harry  Baggs  vociferated  to  the  inattentive  frogs, 
busy  with  their  own  chorus. 


VI 

The  practice  proceeded  with  renewed  vigor  through  the 
evenings  that  followed;  then  French  Janin  sank  back  into 
a  torpor,  varied  by  acute  depression. 

"  I  haven't  got  the  life  in  me  to  teach  you,"  he  admitted 
to  Harry  Baggs.  "  I'll  be  dead  before  you  get  your 
chance;  besides,  you  ought  to  be  practising  all  day,  and 
not  digging  round  plants  and  singing  a  little  in  the  eve 
ning.  You've  got  the  voice,  but  that's  not  enough;  you've 
got  to  work  at  exercises  all  your  life." 

"  I'm  strong,"  Harry  Baggs  told  him;  "  I  can  work 
more  than  most  men." 

"  No,  that  won't  do  alone;  you've  got  to  go  at  it  right, 
from  the  start;  the  method's  got  to  be  good.  I'll  be  dead 
in  some  hospital  or  field  when  you'll  be  hardly  starting. 
But  remember  it  was  Janin  who  found  you,  who  dug  you 
out  of  a  set  of  tramps,  gave  you  your  first  lessons."  He 
changed.  "  Stay  along  with  me,  Harry,"  he  begged; 
"  take  me  with  you.  You're  strong  and'll  never  notice  an 
old  man.  You  will  be  making  thousands  some  day.  I 

[306] 


THE    THRUSH    IN    THE   HEDGE 

will  stop  the  morphia;  perhaps  I've  got  a  good  bit  in  me 
yet.  Attention!  "  He  raised  the  bow. 

"No!  "  he  cried,  interrupting.  "Breathe  deep,  below 
the  chest.  Control!  Control!  Hold  the  note  steady,  in 
the  middle;  don't  force  it  into  your  head." 

His  determination  soon  expired.  Tears  crept  from 
under  his  sunken  lids.  He  reached  furtively  into  his 
pocket,  took  morphia.  The  conviction  seized  Harry 
Baggs  that  nothing  could  be  accomplished  here.  The 
other's  dejection  was  communicated  to  him.  Where  could 
he  find  the  money,  the  time  for  the  necessary  laborious 
years  of  preparation?  He  was  without  credentials,  with 
out  clothes;  there  was  no  one  to  whom  he  could  go  but 
the  old  spent  man  beside  him.  They  were  adrift  to 
gether  outside  life,  as  the  huts  they  inhabited  were  outside 
the  orderly  town  beyond  the  hill. 

He  rose,  left  Janin,  and  walked  slowly  along  the  fence 
to  the  road.  The  moon  had  increased  in  size  and  bril 
liancy;  the  apple  trees  had  bloomed  and  their  fallen  petals 
glimmered  on  the  ground.  He  thought  of  the  house  on 
the  smooth  sward,  with  its  hedge  and  old  trees;  a  sudden 
longing  seized  him  to  linger  at  its  edge,  absorb  again  the 
profound  peaceful  ease;  and  he  quickened  his  pace  until 
he  was  opposite  the  low  gray  facade. 

He  sat  on  the  soft  steep  bank,  turned  on  his  elbow, 
gazing  within.  The  same  voices  drifted  from  the  porch, 
voices  gay  or  placid,  and  contained  laughter.  A  chair 
scraped.  It  was  all  very  close  to  Harry  Baggs  —  and  in 
another  world.  There  was  a  movement  within  the  house; 
a  window  leaped  into  lighted  existence  and  then  went  out 
against  the  wall.  Immediately  after,  a  faint  pure  har- 

[307] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

mony  of  strings  drifted  out  to  the  hedge.  It  was  so  unex 
pected,  so  lovely,  that  Harry  Baggs  sat  with  suspended 
breath.  The  strings  made  a  pattern  of  simple  harmony; 
and  then,  without  warning,  a  man's  voice,  almost  like  his 
own,  began  singing.  The  tones  rose  fluid  and  perfect, 
and  changed  with  feeling.  It  seemed  at  first  to  be  a 
man;  and  then,  because  of  a  diminuendo  of  the  voice,  a 
sense  of  distance  not  accounted  for  by  his  presence  near 
the  hedge,  he  knew  that  he  heard  a  record  of  the  actual 
singing. 

The  voice,  except  for  its  resemblance  to  his  own,  did  not 
absorb  his  attention;  it  was  the  song  itself  that  thrilled 
and  held  him.  He  had  never  before  heard  music  at  once 
so  clear  and  capable  of  such  depths.  He  realized  instinc 
tively,  with  a  tightening  of  his  heart,  that  he  was  listen 
ing  to  one  of  the  great  songs  of  which  Janin  had  spoken. 
It  hung  for  a  minute  or  more  in  his  hearing,  thrilling  every 
nerve,  and  then  died  away.  It  stopped  actually,  but  its 
harmony  rang  in  Harry  Baggs'  brain.  Instantly  it  had 
become  an  essential,  a  permanent  part  of  his  being.  It 
filled  him  with  a  violent  sense  of  triumph,  a  richness  of 
possession  that  gave  birth  to  a  new  unconquerable  pride. 

He  rose,  waited  for  a  short  space;  but  nothing  more 
followed.  He  was  glad  of  that;  he  had  no  wish  to  blur 
the  impressions  of  the  first.  Harry  Baggs  hurried  up  the 
road  and  crossed  the  field  to  where  he  had  left  French 
Janin.  The  latter  was  still  sleeping,  crumpled  against  the 
vegetation,  Baggs  grasped  the  thin  shoulder,  shook  him 
into  consciousness. 

"I  have  just  heard  something,"  he  said.  "Listen! 
What  is  it?" 

[308] 


THE    THRUSH    IN    THE    HEDGE 

He  sang  without  further  preliminary,  substituting  a 
blank  phrasing  for  uncomprehended  words;  but  the  mel 
ody  swept  without  faltering  to  its  conclusion.  Janin  an 
swered  irritably,  disturbed  by  his  rude  awakening: 

"  The  Serenade  from  Don  Giovanni  —  Mozart.  Well, 
what  about  it?" 

"  It's  wonderful!  "  Harry  Baggs  declared.  "  Are  there 
any  more  as  great  ?  " 

"  It  is  good,"  Janin  agreed,  his  interest  stirred;  "but 
there  are  better  —  the  Dio  Possente,  the  Brindisi  from 
Hamlet.  Once  I  led  the  finale  of  Hamlet.  I  saw  the 
Director " 

"  I'll  get  every  one,"  the  boy  interrupted. 

"There  are  others  now,  newer  —  finer  still,  I'm  told; 
but  I  don't  know."  Janin  rose  and  steadied  himself 
against  the  fence.  "  Give  me  a  start.  I've  been  getting 
confused  lately;  I  don't  seem  to  keep  a  direction  like  I 
could.  From  Don  Giovanni :  '  Deh  vieni  alia  finestra  ' — 
*  Come  to  the  window  '  's  about  it.  I'm  glad  you're  not  a 
tenor;  they're  delicate  and  mean.  But  you  are  a  fine  boy, 
Harry;  you'll  take  the  old  man  up  along  with  you!  " 

He  talked  in  a  rapid  faint  voice,  like  his  breathing. 
Harry  Baggs  grasped  his  arm  and  led  him  down  to  their 
shanty.  French  Janin  entered  first,  and  immediately  the 
other  heard  a  thin  complaint  from  within: 

"  Somebody's  got  that  nice  bed  you  made  me." 

Harry  Baggs  went  into  the  hut  and,  stooping,  shook  a 
recumbent  shape. 

"  Get  out  of  the  old  man's  place!  "  he  commanded. 

A  string  of  muffled  oaths  responded. 

"  There's  no  reserved  rooms  here." 
[309] 


THE    HAPPY    END 

"  Get  out!  "  Baggs  insisted. 

The  shape  heaved  up  obscurely  and  the  boy  sent  him 
reeling  through  the  door.  French  Janin  sank  with  weary 
relief  on  the  straw  and  bagging.  He  grasped  the  thick 
young  arm  above  him. 

"We  won't  be  long  in  this,"  he  declared;  "diamond 
studs!" 

He  fell  asleep  instantly,  with  his  fingers  caught  in 
Harry  Baggs'  sleeve.  The  latter,  with  the  supreme  ego 
tism  of  youth,  of  a  single  ambition,  loosened  the  hand  and 
moved  out  of  the  narrow  confinement  of  the  shanty.  He 
wanted  space,  the  sky,  into  which  to  sing  his  imaginary 
triumphant  songs. 

VII 

The  next  day  moved  toward  its  end  without  arresting 
incident.  Janin  and  Harry  Baggs  had  walked  to  the  pub 
lic  road,  where  they  stood  leaning  against  the  rail  fence. 
The  smoke  from  Baggs'  pipe  uprose  in  unbroken  spheres; 
the  evening  was  definitely  hot.  French  Janin  said : 

"In  the  town  to-day  I  asked  about  that  house  here  at 
the  bend.  It  seems  he's  got  money;  comes  for  a  couple  of 
months  in  the  spring  —  just  like  us  —  and  then  goes  to 
Europe  like  as  not.  Perhaps  he  knows  a  voice." 

The  blind  man  fell  silent,  contemplative. 

"  Trouble  is,"  he  broke  out  fretfully,  "  we've  got  noth 
ing  to  sing.  That  about  the  *  damn  old  nigger  '  won't  do. 
You  ought  to  know  something  like  the  Serenade. 

"  Well,"  he  added  after  a  moment,  "  why  not?  I  could 
teach  you  the  words  —  it's  Italian;  you've  nearly  got  the 
air.  It's  all  wrong  and  backward ;  but  this  isn't  the  Con- 

[310] 


THE    THRUSH    IN    THE   HEDGE 

servatoire.  You  can  forget  it  when  you  have  started; 
sing  exercises  again." 

"  When  can  we  begin?  "  Harry  Baggs  asked. 

"  We'll  brush  our  clothes  up  best  we  can,"  Janin  pro 
ceeded,  absorbed  in  his  planning,  "  and  go  up  to  the  porch 
of  an  evening.  *  Mr.  Brinton  ' —  that's  his  name  —  I'll 
say,  '  I'm  M.  Janin,  once  of  the  orchestra  at  the  Opera 
Comique,  and  I'd  like  you  to  listen  to  a  pupil  of  mine. 

I've  heard  them  all  and  this  boy  is  better '  "     He 

stopped;  took  morphia. 

"Can't  you  stop  that  for  a  day?"  Harry  Baggs  de 
manded  desperately.  "  Can't  you?  " 

He  watched  with  bitter  rebellion  the  inevitable  slacken 
ing  of  the  other's  being,  the  obfuscation  of  his  mind. 
Janin  hung  over  the  fence,  with  hardly  more  semblance  of 
life  than  an  incredibly  tattered  and  empty  garment. 

"  Come  on,  you  old  fool!  "  Baggs  exclaimed,  burning 
with  impatience,  balked  desire;  he  half  carried  him 
brusquely  to  his  bed. 

Yet,  under  the  old  man's  fluctuating  tuition,  he  ac 
tually  began  the  Serenade  within  twenty-four  hours. 
"  Deh  vieni  alia  finestra"  French  Janin  pronounced. 

"  Deh  vieni "  Harry  Baggs  struggled  after  him.     His 

brow  grew  wet  with  the  intensity  of  his  effort;  his  tongue, 
it  seemed  to  him,  would  never  accomplish  the  desired  syl 
lables. 

Janin  made  a  determined  effort  to  live  without  his  drug; 
the  abstinence  emphasized  his  fragility  and  he  was  cold, 
even  in  the  heart  of  the  long  sunny  day;  but  the  effort 
stayed  him  with  a  flickering  vitality,  bred  visions,  renewed 
hopes  of  the  future.  He  repeated  the  names  of  places, 


THE   HAPPY    END 

opera  houses  —  the  San  Carlo,  in  Naples;  the  Scala  —  un 
known  to  Harry  Baggs,  but  which  came  to  him  with  a 
strange  vividness.  The  learning  of  the  Serenade  pro 
gressed  slowly;  French  Janin  forgot  whole  phrases,  some 
of  which  returned  to  memory;  one  entire  line  he  was 
forced  to  supply  from  imagination. 

At  last  the  boy  could  sing  it  with  a  degree  of  intelli 
gence;  Janin  translated  and  reconstructed  the  scene,  the 
characters. 

"  You  ought  to  have  some  good  clothes,"  he  told  Harry 
Baggs;  he  spoke  again  of  the  necessity  of  a  diamond  stud. 

"  Well,  I  haven't,"  the  other  stated  shortly.  "  They'll 
have  to  listen  to  me  without  looking." 

He  borrowed  a  rusted  razor  and  subjected  himself  to  the 
pain  of  an  awkward  shaving;  then  inadequately  washed 
his  sole  shirt  and  looped  the  frayed  collar  with  a  nonde 
script  tie. 

The  night  was  immaculate;  the  moon,  past  the  full,  cast 
long  segments  of  light  and  shadow  across  the  countryside. 
Harry  Baggs  drew  a  deep  breath: 

"  We  might  as  well  go." 

French  Janin  objected;  he  wasn't  ready;  he  wasn't  quite 
sure  of  what  he  was  going  to  say.  Then : 

"  I  haven't  anything  to  show.  Perhaps  they  will  laugh 
at  me  —  at  Janin,  of  the  Opera  Comique.  I  couldn't 
allow  that." 

"  I'm  going  to  sing,"  the  boy  reminded  him;  "if  it's 
any  good  they  won't  laugh.  If  what  you  say's  right  they'll 
have  to  believe  you." 

"  I  feel  bad  to-night,  too,  in  my  legs." 

"  Get  your  violin." 

[312] 


THE   THRUSH    IN    THE   HEDGE 

A  fresh  difficulty  arose:  French  Janin  positively  re 
fused  to  play  on  his  present  instrument  before  a  critical 
audience. 

"  It's  as  thin  as  a  cat,"  he  protested.  "  Do  you  want 
me  to  make  a  show  of  myself  ?  " 

"  All  right;  I'll  sing  alone.     Come  on!  " 

Janin's  legs  were  uncertain;  he  stumbled  over  the  path 
to  the  road  and  stopped  at  the  fence.  He  expressed  fresh 
doubts,  the  hesitation  of  old  age;  but  Harry  Baggs  si 
lenced  him,  forced  him  on.  A  cold  fear  possessed  the  boy, 
which  he  resolutely  suppressed:  if  Janin  were  wrong,  his 
voice  worthless,  if  they  laughed,  he  was  done.  Opportu 
nity,  he  felt,  would  never  return.  With  his  voice  scorned, 
no  impetus  remained;  he  had  no  other  interest  in  life,  no 
other  power  that  could  subdue  the  slight  inward  flaw. 

He  saw  this  in  a  vivid  flash  of  self-knowledge.  ...  If 
he  couldn't  sing  he  would  go  down,  lower  than  Janin; 
perhaps  sink  to  the  level  of  Dake. 

"  Come  on !  "  he  repeated  grimly,  assisting  his  compan 
ion  over  the  luminous  white  road. 

Janin  got  actually  feebler  as  he  progressed.  He 
stopped,  gasping,  his  sightless  face  congested. 

"  I'll  have  to  take  a  little,"  he  whispered,  "  just  a  taste. 
That  puts  life  in  me;  it  needs  a  good  deal  now  to  send  me 
off." 

He  produced  the  familiar  bottle  and  absorbed  some 
powder.  Its  effect  was  unexpected  —  he  straightened, 
walked  with  more  ease;  but  it  acted  upon  his  mind  with 
surprising  force. 

"  I  want  to  stop  just  a  little,"  he  proclaimed  with  such 
an  air  of  decision  that  Harry  Baggs  followed  him  with- 

[313] 


THE    HAPPY   END 

out  protest  to  the  fragrant  bank.  "  You're  a  good  fellow," 
Janin  went  on,  seated;  "  and  you're  going  to  be  a  great 
artist.  It'll  take  you  among  the  best.  But  you  will  have 
a  hard  time  for  a  while;  you  won't  want  anybody  hanging 
on  you.  I'd  only  hurt  your  chances  —  a  dirty  old  man, 
a  drugtaker.  I  would  go  back  to  it,  Harry;  it's  got  me, 
like  you  said.  People  wouldn't  have  me  round.  I  doubt 
if  I'd  be  comfortable  with  them.  They'd  ask  me  why  I 
wasn't  Director." 

"  Come  on,"  Baggs  repeated  for  the  third  time;  "  it's 
getting  late." 

He  lifted  French  Janin  to  his  feet  and  forced  him  on. 

"  You  don't  know  life,"  the  other  continued.  "  You 
would  get  sick  of  me;  you  might  get  influenced  to  put  me 
in  a  Home.  I  couldn't  get  my  breath  right  there." 

Harry  Baggs  forced  him  over  the  road,  half  conscious 
of  the  protesting  words.  The  fear  within  him  increased. 
Perhaps  they  wouldn't  even  listen  to  him;  they  might  not 
be  there. 

His  grip  tightened  on  French  Janin;  he  knew  that  at 
the  first  opportunity  the  old  man  would  sink  back  into  the 
oblivion  of  morphia. 

"I've  done  all  I  could  for  you,  Harry  " —  the  other 
whimpered.  "I've  been  some  —  good.  Janin  was  the 
first  to  encourage  you;  don't  expect  too  much." 

"  If  I  get  anywhere,  you  did  it,"  Harry  Baggs  told  him. 

"  I'd  like  to  see  it  all,"  French  Janin  said.  "  I  know 
it  so  well.  Who'd  have  thought  " —  a  dull  amazement 
crept  into  his  voice  — "  that  old  Janin,  the  sot,  did  it?  .  .  . 
And  you'll  remember." 

They  stopped  opposite  the  entrance  to  the  place  they 
[314] 


THE    THRUSH    IN    THE   HEDGE 

sought.  Harry  Baggs  saw  people  on  the  porch;  he  recog 
nized  a  man's  voice  that  he  had  heard  there  before.  On 
the  right  of  the  drive  a  thick  maple  tree  cast  a  deep 
shadow,  but  beyond  it  a  pool  of  clear  moonlight  extended 
to  the  house.  He  started  forward,  but  Janin  dragged 
him  into  the  gloom  of  the  maple. 

"  Sing  here,"  he  whispered  in  the  boy's  ear;  "  see,  the 
window  —  Deh  vieni  alia  finestra" 

Harry  Baggs  stood  at  the  edge  of  the  shadow;  his 
throat  seemed  to  thicken,  his  voice  expire. 

"  No,"  he  protested  weakly;  "  you  must  speak  first." 

He  felt  the  old  man  shaking  under  his  hand  and  a 
sudden  desperate  calm  overtook  him. 

He  moved  forward  a  little  and  sang  the  first  phrase  of 
the  Serenade. 

A  murmur  of  attention,  of  surprised  amusement,  arose 
from  the  porch;  then,  as  his  voice  gained  in  bigness,  flowed 
rich  and  thrilling  and  without  effort  from  his  deep  power 
ful  lungs,  the  murmur  died  away.  The  song  rose  toward 
its  end;  Harry  Baggs  saw  nothing  but  the  window  above 
him;  he  put  all  the  accumulated  feeling,  the  longing,  of 
the  past  miserable  years  into  his  ending. 

A  silence  followed,  in  which  Harry  Baggs  stood  with 
drooping  head.  Then  an  unrestrained  patter  of  applause 
followed;  figures  advanced.  French  Janin  gave  the  boy 
a  sharp  unexpected  shove  into  the  radiance  beyond  the  tree. 

"  Go  on  and  on,"  he  breathed;  "  and  never  come  back 
any  more!  " 

He  turned  and  shambled  rapidly  away  into  the  shad 
ows,  the  obscurity,  that  lined  the  road. 

[315] 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

RSNBWAIS  ONIY-TEI.  NO.  642-3405 
This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  01 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


LD2lA-60m-6,'69 
(J9096slO)476-A-32 


General  Library     . 
University  of  Calif  ormz 
Berkeley 


k 


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